The
Sea Gypsies of Burma
By Bruce
Northam
|
 I’m
sitting in a kayak in a hidden cove somewhere in the Mergui Archipelago
in the Andaman Sea. The archipelago’s 800 islands extend 200 miles along
Burma’s southwestern coast—it’s approximately 10,000 square miles of island
Eden; an area the size of Vermont, without barns. Only 2 percent of the
islands are inhabited, and that by seasonal fishermen. Closed to foreign
visitors for 50 years, this former pirate sanctuary has been open to exploration
only since 1997.
Mergui’s waters,
along with the western shores of Thailand and Malaysia, are home to floating
nomad families, the Moken, who live most of the year on kabangs (houseboats
made from big hollowed-out trees) except during monsoon season, from June
to October, when they build temporary bamboo-and-grass huts on remote beaches.
The Moken belong
to no country, carry no identification papers, and speak their own language.
With no official count, locals estimate that 1,000 Moken live a traditional
life on Burmese waters. During their seven-month stretch at sea, the gypsies
drift in groups of at least six boats, each vessel housing one family,
usually of three generations. They wed young, and the community builds
each couple a boat, wherein the newlyweds can start their own family. Women
cook over an on-board fire, even when moored near a beach. The sea is the
children’s playground…babysitting isn’t an issue.
The floating
villages migrate between temporary moorings alongside beaches, in lagoons,
and near the leeward edges of islands, where the Moken hunt sea turtles
and collect sand worms, shellfish, and clams for food.
Exploring Mergui
by trimaran, my friend Peter and I stop often to kayak: Entering caves,
gliding through mangroves, and looking for the Moken. It has taken us days
to find these elusive people who are born, live and die at sea. On land,
when we approached them, the invitation to exchange confidences evaporated,
but approaching our first seagoing Moken in a kayak seemed to lend us a
bit of credibility—my friend and I paddled up to a band of families musing
in dugout canoes.
A Moken
woman, impossibly beautiful with broad cheeks, shiny long black hair, and
sitting alone in a small boat, smiled to reveal teeth stained dark red
with betel nut. “How’s the fishing?” I asked the woman. Our guide, Tham
(pronounced “Tom”), translated my question into Burmese, and an elderly
man then translated that into Moken. “Fish scared away—now over there,”
nodded the woman, paddling in place.
I turned to
my friend to jest about their sea-bound life being one way to avoid paying
rent. When Tham inordinately translated the quip, the grandfather glanced
our way, winced with gentle, searching eyes, and spoke. Tham said something
lost or found in translation: “Don’t rent space in your head to just anyone.”
Paddling
Back in Time
Once ashore
in Burma, rewind a century. To get to the Mergui Archipelago, you can hire
one of the many water taxis bobbing at the busy Thai port town of Ranong
to take you across the Pakchan channel to Kawthaung in Burma. These long,
narrow, wooden boats are powered by engines that out-roar even the baddest-ass
modified Harley-Davidson pipes. Try to sit up front.
From Kawthaung,
we motor slowly and quietly for 10 hours, through the night, to Lampi,
an island the size of Phuket. Under the moon, we glide by boats lit like
carnival floats with strings of light bulbs to attract squid. Random vessels
bob above and below the undulating horizon. This is the high road to the
world’s end. In the morning, I see that these canoe-like net-fishing boats
are dark, 12-feet long, and carry up to four very tan guys with no sun
block data.
The region
is a sea kayaker’s holy grail: A medley of mountainous islands, craggy
coastlines, beaches, steep-sided limestone pinnacles, conical up-thrusts
capped by forest, and jagged rock formations. Some islands’ shorelines
are blessed with sea caves, their mouths gaping two stories high.
Kayaking here
requires minimal effort to silently cruise at a brisk walking pace. We
paddle around stadium-size rock-tower islands, their faces tide-chiseled
with one-way caves, and tunnels through which powerful surf ebbs and flows.
Navigating these rock-rimmed islands is akin to a gentle roller coaster
ride, a magic carpet glide against a soundtrack of tunnels gurgling and
roaring with frothing sea wash. The in-and-out water vales in the cave
tunnels produce a guttural chorus that would scare Godzilla. The strong
tide action alerts mudskippers and rock crabs to scuttle along the stone
facades. Herons stand still, peering, while eagles circle above. Spotting
beaches between the rock faces of nameless pinnacles, we pull in for a
Frisbee toss and watch scampering monkeys.
This island
zone of blue-green water is little touched by tourism. With only a handful
of outfitters—mainly servicing serious divers—the Mergui Archipelago is
alive with parakeets, blue herons, hornbills, flying fox, jungle dogs and
fish-eating eagles. The hills and mountains are smothered in vegetation,
yet there is a surprising absence of palm trees, which dominate most other
Southeast Asian landscapes.
Mangroves in
the lake-like channel zone of Salet Galet, cupped between Lampi and Wa
Ale Kyunn islands, are the domain of flying fish that bounce like skipped
stones on a strong tidal flow into dense rhizophora trees. The swamps of
the American South come to mind. We time ourselves to ride high tide into
mangrove tunnels and then exit on low tide via vine-encased, mineshaft-like
highways and side roads. Kayaks allow you to sneak up on hornbills and
macaques—we are much quieter than the ecosystem’s natural croaking and
popping chorus that the tides rouse twice a day. Massive roots, twisting
and intertwined around and above us, form a mangrove church; light twinkling
through clusters like rays through stained glass. |
| Before
You Go, You Should Know… |
| While it’s possible to explore the
Mergui Archipelago with no one other than your mandatory government appointed
Burmese guide (about $25 a day), it’s most cost (and time) effective to
go through an outfitter who can take care of your visas (about $140) and
permits (needed to kayak or dive in Mergui, about $100). |
| The best time to go is late September
through May. Remember, though the area has been stable for more than two
years, overland borders are periodically closed without notice, usually
due to problems with Northern Thailand. This means there’s a slight chance
your trip could be delayed while you’re stuck in Ranong or Kawthaung. |
| Visitors fly in and out of Phuket,
Thailand. Transiting through Kuala Lumpur is generally cheaper than going
through Bangkok or Singapore. |
| While there is reportedly almost
no malaria risk in the major cities of Rangoon (Yangon) and Mandalay, it
is a possibility in rural areas. The Center for Infectious Diseases (www.cdc.gov/travel)
is a great source for precautions, as is your physician—check the facts
when planning your trip. |
| In the tropics, minor insect bites
and scratches can transform into infected open welts. I brought an antibacterial.
It also helps to be prepared to wear a long-sleeved shirt and trousers
and use insect repellent containing DEET (diethylmtoluamide), while in
Kawthoung, jungle trekking, at camp and beach barbecues. Comprehensive
travel insurance is also a good idea. |
|
| Outfitters |
| South East Asia
Liveaboards Co. (SEAL); +66 76 340406; www.seal-asia.com
Two-week Mergui trips use a trimaran
as base camp, from which visitors kayak, snorkel and hike on the island.
Author visited with this outfitter. |
| To
Go or Not To Go |
| Usually there
are two sides to a story—and if you’re a traveler, add a third dimension:
In nations of humanitarian conflict, should you spend your dollars and
therein take a side? One side says spending tourist dollars in countries
that commit human rights violations is irresponsible, since such dollars
fuel the incumbent power-at-large. Consequently, Lonely Planet and other
travel guides are feeling pressure to pull their Myanmar (Burma) editions
from shelves worldwide. Another point of view: Visiting such countries
positively contributes to local economies and acts as an international
“eye” on the situation. |
|
Water World
Some anthropologists
think the Moken are descended from peoples who migrated from Mongolia,
and later moved down Burma’s northeastern Shan states. Although their origins
remain obscure, the Moken may be the last link to the indigenous Southeast
Asians who survived the Ice Age by taking to boats 10,000 years ago, when
the region was submerged in 300 feet of water. Why did they stay offshore?
One theory is they didn’t want to convert to Islam, which spread into the
region in the 14th century.
However, the
Moken are by no means a people that time forgot. Moken songs and folk tales
recall how when the Chinese began sailing through, these sea nomads quickly
learned to dive for pearls and sea cucumbers to trade with the foreigners.
Today, the Moken still swim deep into submerged caves harvesting sea cucumbers
for export to China and Japan. Not having modern scuba gear, they dive
up to 20 meters equipped with only a mask, fins and a hosepipe acting as
a super long snorkel.
The pull toward
commercial fishing and Buddhism is taking hold too, as many Moken are settling
into permanent villages built by the government. Hopefully, those Moken
still living traditionally off the coast of Burma won’t go the way of their
cousins in neighboring Thailand. For them, the modern world means living
a life of poverty (by land standards) eked out by selling souvenirs to
tourists.
But while the
Moken’s strong cultural identity (developed on the water) is being forced
to adapt to new environments—rows of thatched huts elevated on stilts driven
into the mud—they seldom venture any distance inland from the beach. Boat
dwellers don’t have much business on land.
Though it
seems these permanent villages challenge the Moken’s rootless ways, the
truth is that their roots do grow deep. The family is tightly connected
and activities revolve around the boat, just as western families’ revolve
around the ranch house, chalet or high-rise apartment. Moken homes just
happen to move. So despite living on the move, they live connected: connected
to the water, connected to the stars, connected to the seasons, and connected
to each other.
Legacy
As the world
changes around them, the Moken are slowly disappearing. But, for as long
as they last, they seem to be sublimely impervious to the despair occurring
in the rest of world. Many cultures like theirs persist under the gun,
seemingly impossibly, because genetically they don’t know when to quit.
In this lonely dockside corner of Asia, knotty vitality breathes, even
though on the fringe of a country at war with itself. Optimists and pessimists
are both correct about Burma—pick your reality.
As the kabang
floats away, a teenager onboard turns around and lends one more Moken smile.
There is no
way to harmony. Harmony is the way.
The sunrise
is a stronger symbol than the sun setting on Burma’s departing sea gypsies.
The winds are watching. As the boat disappeared into the horizon, I began
to appreciate that we can’t truly understand the sea until we turn our
backs on the shore.
About the
Author
 |
Bruce Northam is an independent
travel journalist and author who has journeyed through more than 100 countries
on seven continents. He is creator of www.americandetour.com.
Northam speaks on freestyle travel and has had his articles published in
National Geographic Traveler Travelers’ Tales and Chicken Soup for the
Soul. He is author of the books Globetrotter Dogma: 100 Canons for Escaping
the Rat Race & Exploring the World, The Frugal Globetrotter, and In
Search of Adventure: A Wild Travel Anthology. |
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