Mawlamyine (nee. Moulmein), once the capital of British Burma from 1826 to 1852, it’s as though the colonial buildings have receded back into the undergrowth and the jungle has taken back ownership. The odd old building stands out, but more over this is a Myanmar city again, and situated along the Thanlwin River it delivers a bit of charm of it’s own.

There really isn’t much to do here. There’s a Paya where Rudyard Kipling famously wrote “I should better remember what the pagoda was like had I not fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with a Burmese girl at the foot of the first flight of steps. Only the fact of the steamer starting next noon prevented me from staying at Moulmein forever”. Kipling only stayed three days here, but it was enough to inspire him to write the poem Mandalay.

The climb up to the Paya was surrounded by several monasteries, and at one point two young girls sat in the covered staircase singing a prayer, only pausing when I walked pasted as they watched me go by, then resumed quickly after. There’s certainly something serene about walking amongst monasteries, something in the atmosphere. Must be all that Buddhist happiness.

The two days here didn’t really amount to much, but it did feel like I was getting into backpacker mode properly. It had been a week now since I’d arrived in Myanmar, and I always suspect it takes a week to get into holiday mode and stop thinking about things happening back in Oz.

My next stop was Hpa-An, and I was intending on taking the 2 hour bus ride. I had originally read there was a boat trip, which I was keen to take that route, but quickly put it aside when I saw it was a private boat with a minimum of 6 people. However when I went to ask about bus tickets at the Breeze Hotel I was staying at (the place reminded me of staying in a mental asylum), the owner, Mr Antony, put the hard sell for me to take the boat. When I questioned the number of people, he waved it off – “they will come, they always come!”, he said and showed the me previous weeks bookings where a dozen or more people a day were taking the boat. Alright, the boat it was. 10,000k down I went back to my room and packed for tomorrow morning.

I’m not entirely sure I’d recommended the boat ride. It has a lot of room for improvement to get over the discomfort. The boat is a small sized wooden thing with a diesel engine at the rear. This type of boat is perfectly fine for short distances, but a 4 hour ride sitting on vibrating hard wooden seating planks doesn’t lend itself to a fun filled time. If the seating was at least cushioned, it might have made for a much more pleasant trip.

We had one stop, at a small island village about 30mins into the trip. We basically just pulled into the jetty and stopped, no one really knowing what we were supposed to be doing. I looked over at the only other English speaker (for some bizarre reason just about all foreigners are French), Dan from America, we shrug and got off. A short wander around the village, and some freaked out dogs that didn’t like me being near the paya (according to Dan dogs are racists), we get back on the boat and continue on.

There were just over a dozen of us, and there were three emotional stages that everyone seemed to go through. First was the YAY  WE’RE ON A BOAT, OMG LOOK AT THAT FISHERMAN! phase, were half of the people would get their cameras out and start taking photos at any given thing. IS THAT A STICK IN THE WATER *SNAP* *SNAP* There was excitement, maybe a little too much excitement. Maybe the French are a little sheltered and these things are legitimately wondrous to them.

Second was the remorse phase. A couple of hours in and the excitement had drowned a watery death back down the river. At this point everyone went quiet, a few put on headphones, some read books, but we all just wished it was over soon. Dan had download the offline map for Google Maps and would occasionally bring it up and we’d check how far to go. It felt like an eternity as the engine slowly rumbled and spat from behind. One of the Frenchmen was following the US presidential election and would keep us up to date with what was happening, which really only made matters worse.

The third and final stage was jubilous relief. It was obvious we were nearing Hpa-An, even though we were still a fair way to the jetty. But it didn’t matter, we knew, we could see Hpa-An, it was almost over. Quite a few people got up from their seat for the first time and went to the bow of the boat. A few Frenchies lite cigarettes, chatter resume, the pain on my butt and legs seemed to disappear, and half an hour later we arrived at the jetty and disembarked. Ahh sweet, sweet, relief.

Everyone started parting their own ways, and myself, Dan, and two French girls that were staying in the was backpackers I was staying at, decided to walk into town. What was interesting about this, and something I’ve started to see a few times now, is the use of GPS. While I thought Dan was using as a novelty, both he and the French girls used it to find their way into town. But stranger was when we arrived in town, no one bothered to open a proper map, but almost got lost and asked locals where the backpackers was. I felt like opening my Lonely Planet, that had a map showing exactly where to go, and pointing them in the right direction. But this was far too interesting to watch, the new generation of backpackers relying on technology rather than using it to compliment something as mundane as a real paper map.

Needless to say, the first thing I’ll do, I thought to myself, would be to download the offline map of Myanmar when I had wifi again.