The former capital of Myanmar, Yangon (called 'Rangoon' by the British) is a fascinating, cosmopolitan place. But I'd not been across the Yangon River to see what's there. I'd seen the ferries crossing from the other side. I'd seen the passengers teeming off the ferry and making their way into the city. Now, armed with a Government Permit, I hoped to see for myself.
One feature of all the maps I'd seen of Yangon was the lack of any detail as to what lay of the other side of the river. Although separated from the City by a ferry crossing of only a few minutes, as far as the cartographers were concerned, it was a 'Terra Incognita'. I'd found out that the area was termed 'Dalla Township', mustering a population of one million! It appeared to be where a lot of Yangon's workers lived, commuting daily on the ferries.
I had a fairly leisurely breakfast at the Strand before walking to the Ferry Terminal, only a few hundred yards from the hotel. I first approached a ticket collector on the ramp leading to the landing stage but, seeing my Government Permit, he directed me to a ticket office at the far end of the adjacent Waiting Room. At the ticket window, I presented my Permit again but, with the shake of his head, he pointed further along. There was no other ticket window, just a door which opened as I approached. Some sort of supervisor (with reasonable English) studied my pass carefully and the laboriously wrote out two tickets (one to go, one to come back) in a triplicate book. Foreigners are charged a significant multiple of the local price (the situation was the same when I travelled on the Circle Line) but it's still good value compared with transport at home.
I waited patiently with the other passengers until the ferry docked and most of the arriving passengers had disembarked, then we were allowed down the ramp and onto the rather battered-looking ferry. By the time everybody was aboard, the ship was fairly full but not crush-loaded. We cast off and made our way across the channel. Looking upstream, I could see the transit sheds of the original port. The 'Rahman-Noor-Rahim', registered in Chittagong, was loading timber onto her aft deck, presumably having already filled the hold. Numerous small river-taxis buzzed in every direction and there were various cargo ships moored in mid-channel. We passed the other ferry on our route heading for the Yangon Landing Stage. Soon, we were tying up to the Dalla Landing Stage and there was quite a crowd waiting to board for the return journey. I made my way up the ramp and outside. There were shops, buses, taxis and cycle-rickshaws touting for business and people - lots of people. Everybody seemed in a hurry to get where they were going. I realised that, having got this far, I had no idea what to do next!
At first, I shook my head at the various forms of transport offered to me. Then, I realised I would see nothing without local help, so I negotiated with one of the cycle rickshaw drivers who had been persistent but not offensive. Yes, he would take me round Dalla for a few U.S. Dollars for 30 minutes. The rate was quite a multiple of what locals would pay, but it turned out to be a good decision. The driver spoke good English and made quite a competent tourist guide, so I spent over two hours touring the spread-out town. It's more like a series of interconnected villages with lots of greenery and a wide variety of building styles, all fairly modest. A long, straight well-surfaced road led away from the ferry terminal, but soon we turned off, crossing an elderly Bailey Bridge with a pronounced sag in the middle. We cycled parallel to a creek where a number of the brightly-painted and sleek-looking water taxis were being repaired on the muddy bank. A foreigner being cycled through a roadside market always attracts attention, but the people are invariably friendly and just curious. We stopped for photographs by a bridge over the creek near what appeared to be a water-taxi 'rank' - dozens of boats pulled up on the mud with people milling about. A number of locals, particularly children, collected round the cycle-rickshaw and were fascinated to see pictures of themselves. It's pleasant that they rarely beg for money or sweets.
As you can imagine, it can be quite hard work for the cycle-rickshaw driver but mine assured me he could keep going all day. Few of these drivers own the rickshaw - they rent them for around a dollar a day. It's a tough way of making a living, but they can sustain a family with this kind of work.
We stopped by a large Buddhist temple complex. Although it was raining, I decided to explore the various temples. It didn't appear to be that old, but it was clearly well-used. Because dilapidations are made good fairly promptly at well-endowed temples and structures are regularly re-painted, it's easy to be misled about the age of temples. I took a number of pictures before we returned to the cycle-rickshaw.
We passed the shipbuilding yard of Inland Water Transport - quite a large undertaking then another Bailey Bridge took us through another 'village'. In any community, you'll always find a teashop and they always seem quite well patronised - the Burmese love to sit and talk. More roadside stalls, young children playing in the stream, women working in the rice fields - an amazing contrast with central Yangon. A fisherman was standing in the stream, occasionally casting his large net. Two young women were doing the family wash in rainwater puddles at the side of the road, completely unembarrassed. We came to a junction with a rather stained concrete clocktower. An elaborate system of props had been added, presumably to delay its likely collapse.
My driver stopped and pointed to a series of derelict-looking sheds with lots of women milling about. "Market" he said, and suggested I have a look round. I'm always amazed at the range of goods available at these markets - fruit, vegetables, chicken, fish, hardware and fancy goods. In contrast, just a few feet from one row of stalls, there was a large waste dump including discarded food.
We cycled away from the market, passing a pool with a sign proudly displaying (in English and Burmese) "This pond was rehabilitated with support from the European Union". Next, we passed a Monastery with an impressive gilded entrance arch. Then we watched another fisherman casting his net in a stream. He pulled the net ashore and squatted to check the catch. This time, it was only one tiny, almost translucent fish.
We'd come back to the Yangon River and large, sea-going fishing boats were beached here. A little further and we reached another village with the usual tea-houses and local people happily passing time. There was a very old Hindu Temple here, apparently closed-up, situated in overgrown grounds serving as an adventure playground for a number of local children. The houses here were mainly of wood, so I assumed the nearby watchtower was a fire look-out. In contrast, St. Michaels Church was a well-built and well-maintained structure.
We passed a crudely-built roadside table for drying charcoal then many more houses and shops, many built on short piles and surrounded by water used for growing rice and similar crops. In most cases, an insecure-looking wooden walkway led across the water garden from the road to the building.
At a T-Junction, we found a number of cycle-rickshaws waiting for hire, with the drivers passing time in the inevitable Tea-House. The exchanges between my driver and the waiting drivers were, of course, in Burmese but I formed the impression that my driver was much-admired for having snared himself a high-paying foreigner. There are many small lorries fitted with tilt covers used as minibuses in Burma, but I'd never seen one before carrying a coffin! I probably wouldn't have realised the vehicle was doing duty as a hearse, had my driver not drawn it to my attention.
Shortly, we stopped outside another Hindu Temple, but this one gaily painted on the outside. My driver hailed the caretaker who didn't look too pleased at the prospect of opening up for a tourist, but a small donation to the temple changed his attitude completely and after I'd walked round the temple, he fetched the Holy Water from the Inner Temple so that he could administer the Blessing. In sign language, he showed me how to receive the Blessing and we parted good friends.
Next door, there was a large Mosque - the Rahmath Mosque, highly decorated outside and very striking in white and pale blue. My cycle-rickshaw journey which had revealed so many contrasts in Dalla was now almost over. We rejoined the main road and soon arrived back at the bustle of the Ferry Terminal. I happily paid off my driver/guide and presented my return ferry ticket for inspection before going onto the landing stage to watch the approaching ferry berth. The short ferry crossing safely returned me to Yangon City and a few minutes walk took me back to the comfort of the Strand Hotel.
Pictures of the Yangon River Ferry.
Pictures around Dalla.
Pictures of Dalla Temple.
