Katha
.
Following in Orwell’s footsteps to
Katha, Burma
by Julio Etchart
U Tue Mg displays an amiable smile when he offers me a seat and a cup of sweet lapaye tea. But he is
naturally nervous, as I am. We can't exchange more than half a dozen words, between my non-existent
Burmese and his most basic English. But this gentle elderly man understands the purpose of my visit to
this remote corner of his country, and he proves to be an excellent host, like most of his fellow compatriots.
Monks helping themselves to rice from a big pot at a monastry in Kartha, Upper Irrawady, where George
Orwell’s Burmese Days was set.
Villagers walking to the market place passed the old British Custom House in Katha.
He is the secretary of the Agricultural Co-op in the town of Katha, a long train ride, or up to two days
upstream by boat, from the venerable city of Mandalay, immortalized by Kipling's famous poem. The
enterprise's large warehouse, where peanut oil and other produce are processed and stored, lies across the
yard from our shady verandah. Accommodation is thrown in with the job, so he is the sole inhabitant and
caretaker of the building, which used to be the headquarters of the British Club. The old colonial enclave was
the centre of the local Anglo-Indian expatriate community at the time of the Raj.
Toy machine guns for sale next to a Buddhist
temple in Katha.
The Verandah at the Old British Club in Katha,
which George Orwell used to attend.
Burma had become part of the British Empire during the nineteenth century as a province of British India,
and George Orwell (né Eric Blair) spent five years from 1922 to 1927 as a police officer in the Indian Imperial
Police force in what is now Myanmar. It was his experience in this isolated outpost that inspired him to write
his first novel, Burmese Days, first published 75 years ago. It is a story about the waning days of the Raj
before World War II and one of the greatest denunciations of imperialism ever written, and a powerful critique
of the colonial mindset that underpinned the system.
Poster and pirate DVD shop in the market in Katha.
"They arrive now", Mr. Mg reported, interrupting my tour of the old building, still in excellent condition, despite
its age. He had invited me to attend the afternoon remedial Math session for the local schoolchildren. The
classroom was downstairs, in what it used to be the old billiards room, then out of bounds to 'non-Europeans'.
A group of about thirty kids started to take their places and listened to the explanations of the tutors, hired by
the local education authority to help them to catch up with their school curriculum.
It was a surreal scene, trying to imagine Orwell and his workmates playing snooker in the evenings and
toasting the King with a glass of gin and tonic or Indian Pale Ale. It had been transformed to a couple of
dozen tables full of eager youth and a teacher pointing to a big blackboard with Burmese numerals, drowned
by the cacophony of young voices reciting their tables.
Children learning English in the afternoon in the basement of the ex-British Club in Katha.
"Tennis there…" my host rescues me from the smiles of the diligent kids to steer me out of the house to point
me in the direction of the outbuildings and the tennis court, also featured in the novel and still in use, as a
free facility, by the neighbours. I thanked him and head off, after taking a few shots of a middle age couple
doing warming up exercises before their match. The court and the changing rooms are well maintained,
though the surface betrays a few cracks.
Passenger boat on the Irrawady river in Katha.
I am both confused and impressed. I had come to Burma to follow the thread of a novel by one of the most
influential English writers of the 20th century. My pre-conceived narrative was fairly simple: Orwell
condemned in this book and all his later work the twin evils of imperialism and thought control. I was going
to put his exposition in the context of the realities of modern day Myanmar. The Raj is long gone - the
country achieved its independence in 1947 - but it has been subsequently substituted by one of the most
vicious dictatorships on earth, in the name of Socialism.
The train station in Katha.
The destruction of the rain forest, started by the British and inferred in the novel, since some of the
expatriates traded in timber, carries on at an alarming rate, though nowadays the main consumer is China,
whose insatiable demand for raw materials fuels the deforestation of the countryside. I witness this at the
harbour of ancient Mandalay, the second city in the country and the economic hub of upper Myanmar, where
I went to photograph the constant loading of huge beams of teak unto boats of all sizes. The precious cargo
is heading up north, towards the Chinese border, before reaching its final destination inside Yunnan province
on the Mekong River. A fat hardwood tycoon comes out of a fancy four wheel drive and challenges me: 'Why
some many pictures; you like my trees?' 'Very nice trees', I retorted, in total honesty. And, trying to buy time
to get away without further trouble: 'They will make beautiful houses'. 'Oh, yes', said the boss, evidently
pleased with my compliment …'and look, more coming'. I turned to see another five lorries, weighed down
with trunks, negotiating the dusty access to the terminal to wait for the next ship to dispose of their valuable
haul.
Flat bread Pharaka maker in the market, Katha.
China also controls the mining industry and is blighting the cities with hotels and shopping malls of the most
dubious architectural taste. More importantly, the powerful neighbour is giving the ruling junta the political
support they so desperately need, as they become increasingly isolated from the rest of the world.
The average Burmese continues to suffer from the greed of a neo-colonialist power; so little has changed in
the last three quarters of a century.
Yet it is not easy to discover the 'real' Myanmar. I am travelling independently and have no official minders
attached to me, though my whereabouts are obviously known to the authorities, since you are 'logged-into'
the system from the time you buy a train ticket or book into a guest house.
But this is not necessarily the preamble to paranoia. On the contrary, wherever you go there is this warm
sense of following a series of small serendipities, of being led to places and people who seem to have
adjusted to the to and fro of history with peace and resignation.
Basket vendor in the market, Katha.
Women polishing Buddha statues at a workshop
near Mandalay.
Katha has a dreamlike air about it. The small town does not seem to have changed much since Orwell lived
here. It has a fantastic setting high on a bank on a bend of the mighty Ayeyarwady - formerly Irrawaddy -
River, Myanmar's main artery, with views of distant mountain ranges.
A number of Buddhist temples adorn the riverfront and I am moved to visit one of them on the far side of
the main promenade. It turns out to be a monastery and the head monk greets me warmly and invites me to
share their only meal of the day, taken around noon -heaps of rice and vegetables prepared by local people
who take it in turns to cook for the monks -. We talk in French, which he learned in Laos during a long stay
in the holy city of Luang Prabang. He is happy that the novices here don't have the same temptations than
the ones he mentored back there. There is no Internet in Katha, so no chance for his young charges to get
polluted with Google and Facebook, a favourite pastime for religious probationers in the rest of SE Asia, as
I have witnessed on my visits to cyber-cafes in the region. The World Wide Web in Myanmar is confined to
the main cities and even then, severely monitored by the authorities, with only selected websites made
accessible. Since the monks have been at the forefront of the recent anti-government protests, I try to
extract some comment on my host's political views. But, alas, his remarks are oblique: "Rien ça change ici
en Katha…" which could be interpreted as a universal statement on the fate of any backwater, or as a
profound analysis on the future of his troubled country, where the rulers won't allow any dissent to flourish.
Monks taking food given by people to their monastery in Katha.
Satisfied with the rice and the blessings, I take a meandering path through a grove of fir trees to the site of
another religious faith--St Paul's Anglican church, which is one of only two Christian places of worship in town;
the other is a catholic chapel. Although St Paul's has been extensively rebuilt, it stands on the location where
a crucial scene in Orwell's book takes place. After a Sunday sermon, Flory, the central British character, is
humiliated in front of the woman he loves, as part of an elaborate plot by a corrupt local magistrate to
discredit him. As a result, she rejects him and he eventually commits suicide.
Through John Flory, a timber merchant who appreciates Burmese culture and becomes disillusioned with
the Empire, Orwell portrays the first stages of his own personal transformation from a colonial policeman to
a radical thinker.
Agricultural work near Mandalay.
It took me 15 hours of a very bumpy train journey to reach Katha from Mandalay.
I shared my sleeper compartment with three boisterous off-duty army officers who insisted in measuring out
their ample supplies of food and local whisky with me. Unable to get any sleep, I joined them in an all night
game of poker, 'Las Vegas' style, as they called it. Which meant, I ended up losing some 5,000 kyat,
- about 5 US Dollars - but I guessed that paid for the roast chicken and the liquor. The only one of them who
spoke any English, a captain in what he described as a 'tactical unit', told me about his exploits quashing the
Karen insurgents, who have been fighting the central government in the east of the country, along the Thai
border for more than three decades. "I shot many enemies", he boasted, emboldened by the firewater,
"…and now we have peace in the Union of Myanmar". It was a sobering moment and a reminder of the
ruthlessness of a system that has consistently crushed the cry for autonomy or independence of the many
ethnic minorities within its borders.
Villagers crossing the famous U Bein’s wooden bridge near Amarapura on the Irrawady river.
The company I kept on the train back to Mandalay could not have been more different: I was sharing a
carriage with monks on their way to the capital, Yangon, as well as with a young family. It was inspiring to
see the monks playing with the children and exchanging jokes with their parents. Members of Buddhist
orders are venerated and deeply respected throughout Burma and ordinary people who come to help clean
the buildings and feed their occupants visit their temples on a daily basis.
I wondered whether my fellow travelers had been involved in the protests of last year that were brutally put
down by the government. Human rights in Myanmar are a long-standing concern for the international
community, and there is a consensus that the military junta is one of the world's most repressive and abusive
regimes. Opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi continues under house arrest and there are no signs of
political liberalization.
Unloading teak and other hardwoods at Mandalay Harbour.
I visited many enchanting pagodas around the country. In the visitors centre of the main ones you always
find photos of the ruling generals praying and paying their respects at the altars. Buddhists believe that you
can partly expiate your sins by building or restoring temples. It reminds me of U PO Kyin, the corrupt
magistrate in Burmese Days, who plots against Flory to himself become a member of the exclusive British
Club.
He, too, believes he can get away with his wicked ways by financing new sanctuaries, but shortly after the
unhappy expatriate takes his own life, Kyin dies, unredeemed, before building a single shrine.
Maybe the mysterious laws of karma, apparently understood by Orwell, will finally vindicate the inhabitants
of this alluring land.
Men playing drafts in the streets of Katha.
Vendors in the market in Katha.
All of our advertising is certified by Google and therefore may be viewed safely.