We decided to give Kyaiktiyo a miss. Despite being one of Mon State’s main attractions, the temptation to spend a few extra days in Mawlamyine was far too strong. Instead of trudging uphill alongside tourists, prostrating pilgrims, saffron-robed monks and shaggy temple dogs to see a huge rock covered in gold leaf and improbably perched on the edge of a cliff, we wandered around Burma’s fourth largest city eating coconut pancakes and photographing turquoise minarets reflected in our sunglasses.
We were only a week into our trip and yet to realise the pagoda’s famous Golden Rock had spawned a series of imitators – a glimmering collection of balancing boulders dotted across the country. So when we discovered Nwa-le-bo (about 15 miles north of Mawlamyine) had its very own version, we decided to see what the fuss was about.
Rising early, we drank sweet tea at the shop next to our guesthouse and packed a slab of semolina cake before taking scooter taxis to a roundabout on the outskirts of town. Red-and-white roadblocks wrapped with barbed wire made a few streets inaccessible, but that didn’t deter the handful of young men frantically filling rival pick-ups with people and produce bound for Kyonka village. We were pointed to a space next to sacks of onions before our feet touched the ground.
At the village, a truck awaits. Thick wooden planks lay across its bed, a scaffold staircase for passengers to access the makeshift seats. A few cars park up, creaking and hissing as their engines cool in the shade. From behind the tinted windows, a procession of women emerges wearing freshly pressed longyi, double-breasted blouses and heeled sandals. Delicate flowers tucked into neat chignons.
Despite their smart attire, they’re unfazed by the adventurous ascent to the pagoda. Our copy of Lonely Planet described the journey as a ‘slow crawl’ but it turned out to be a full-throttle, bone-crunching race to the top. The driver refusing to slow down despite the steep switchbacks and sheer drops.
Halfway up, we stopped at a covered station where we handed over our money. Someone leapt out to hose down the lorry’s overworked engine and, after more crunched gears, we arrived at the entrance. The men purchase flimsy sheets of gold leaf to stick to the boulders; the women enlist the services of the pagoda’s photographer.
We spy three gold rocks teetering at the edge of the complex, shimmering in the sunlight and looking strangely surreal against the rolling green hills. All is still. All is quiet, save for the song of a few soaring swallows. That’s until Khin catches up with us.
She spends the next half an hour directing, positioning and parading us from one group to another. We’re her willing mannequins. Some members of her party are shy and stand stiffly beside us. Others are bolder. They grab our arms, place them around their waists and kiss our cheeks. People shout instructions, swap in and out of pictures, throw their heads back laughing.
Finally, when every combination of dust-covered traveller and Burma sightseer has been exhausted, we drift our separate ways. Incense is lit, gold leaf is delicately peeled from squares of white paper and applied to the rocks. People stand with their arms above their heads, pretending to support the weight of the teetering boulders. We gaze at our serene hilltop surrounds and feed cake crumbs to sparrows.
The peace doesn’t last long, though. The lorry honks its horn and Khin dashes off to purchase her prints. She holds up one of the plastic-bagged photos on the journey back down and we turn our camera on her – broad smile, gold earrings, jewelled wedding band and pastel pink nail polish – only painted on the left hand – all captured amid the commotion. Khin made me feel like a celebrity for a few minutes, but more importantly, it was an honour to spend a few hours with her family and friends.
That evening, we head to the riverside as the food stalls swing into action. We order a plate of onion fritters from a seller who balances his kit on this shoulder like oversize weighing scales. On one side is a pan of bubbling oil set over hot coals, while on the other, a basket filled with little plastic bags of tamarind dipping sauce, tops scrunched and secured with rubber bands. As the sun dips below the horizon, a young girl collects ring-pull bottle caps that litter the floor, slipping them on her fingers.
All images © Nic Crilly-Hargrave Photography – thanks ;-)