River Life in Yangon

The days here start early. At 430am, half an hour before the first days of morning light appear, the docks of Lan Ma Daw jetty in Yangon, Burma, are already bustling with people, from blurry-eyed students to laborers unloading basket-loads of food. It is a setting that has remained unchanged for decades, one that might shift with the recent turn of Burma’s political and economic isolation.

For now, the docks seem to paint a picture of much of Burma’s lower to middle class society. All walks of life converge here, from food sellers and their makeshift stalls selling noodles and hot tea, to the boatmen that transport passengers to and from Dala, a district just across the river.

I first met one of these boatmen, a wiry man named Khin Maung Than, as he stood on the stone steps along the shore. It was late in the afternoon, and he was staring at the small boats that were lined up, waiting for the first customers to come in from the city after a full day of work or school.

He answered questions quietly and monotonously, his weathered face betraying no emotion. However, I later learned through my translator that he had shared remarkable stories about his life, including the notable experience of surviving 2008’s Cyclone Nargis. He pointed at the pile of rubble next to me, revealing that it used to be a flight of steps that had been destroyed in the cyclone’s wake. He invited me on his boat the next day, an offer I gladly took up.

It was only later that I found out that it was illegal for foreigners to ride on a local boat, and that Khin was risking his boating license. As he rowed the boat around the river, he told me how he saw ships fly across the harbor in the storm, smashing the smaller boats that boatmen like himself depended on for their livelihood. He recalled rescuing two women, who, upon realizing that the storm had torn off their clothes, were so filled with shame that they dived back into the sea. He didn’t reach them a second time.

The sobering experience of the cyclone seems to have established an unbreakable bond among the people who spend their lives along Yangon River. Khin, 31, started working as a boatman when he was 17. He described his feelings about the community with a Burmese staying, which, loosely translated, means “die not different, live not separate.” He would continue to work as a boatman as long as the jetty existed. “It’s the only profession I know,” he said.