city out of time - Moulmain - inspired Kipling and countless others.

Its a cliche, everyone from Kipling onwards said it in one form or another:             By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, Moulmain, the city , east of Yangon on the other side of the Gulf of Mottama seems to inspire similar responses from people who visit there. So I'll join the chorus: Old crumbling buildings, algae, green lichen, palm trees and GREEN everywhere, the sea never far away. Golden stupas and pagodas on the ridge of the hill. The gold glittering and gleaming in the sun. Cars come in dribs and drabs, its never really crowded on the streets. This city is slow, time seems to move differently here, people are calmer and more direct, I feels as though the British just left yesterday...essentially the SAME place, ... Just to emphasize the point: I ended up in the same guest house, the exact same arrangement of the furniture in the entrance, to my eyes NOTHING had changed... from when I first visited in 1999. I know what to expect: I know that at 6am there will be a god almighty communal throat clearing and phlegm spitting by the local guests. Nothing left to the imagination... all the rooms in the lower floor are connected at ceiling height to allow air circulation. The guest house itself: an old huge rambling mansion, straight out of Mervin Peake's Ghormenghast trilogy. Stepping off the train: I felt as though I'm still in a dream of the past, or just walked into an ancient history documentary. I'm sure this feeling will fade within 24 hours. Arriving anywhere the first day, the first few hours are the best to get a measure of the place before the spirit and the body acclimatize and the differences from other places fade and the mental background noise resumes full strength. Still I think I could retire in a place like this... where 10 years are like a few days... Thursday 9Jul09 the poem by Rudyard Kipling that talks about Moulmain transposed Burma into the realm of mystic phantasy is below: - apparently he fell madly in love with a Lady he met on his first day there.... Mandalay By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"              Come you back to Mandalay,              Where the old Flotilla lay:              Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?              On the road to Mandalay,              Where the flyin'-fishes play,              An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat -- jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:              Bloomin' idol made o'mud --              Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd --              Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!              On the road to Mandalay . . . When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.              Elephints a-pilin' teak              In the sludgy, squdgy creek,              Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!              On the road to Mandalay . . . But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."              No! you won't 'eed nothin' else              But them spicy garlic smells,              An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;              On the road to Mandalay . . . I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?              Beefy face an' grubby 'and --              Law! wot do they understand?              I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!              On the road to Mandalay . . . Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be -- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;              On the road to Mandalay,              Where the old Flotilla lay,              With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!              On the road to Mandalay,              Where the flyin'-fishes play,              An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! Rudyard Kipling  "Mandalay". http://www.arctracer.com/poems/Mandalay.html Women here do smoke HUGE cheeroots, it might them a day or longer to finish one... 'dance me to the children who are asking to be born....'  - Leonard Cohen Haiko's - blog list here or direct: life42  or backpacking or  stories I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings.... I hear the sound of her wings.... and the darkness lifts from my soul...