Home of the Moken, Myanmar

Story and Photographs by YE MYAT TUN Illustrated by BRITTNEY MITCHEM TUN

Arriving at the Yangon International Airport in the wee hours of the morning, I plodded through the doors, checked in, and hit the top floor scouting for a coffee kiosk before my torturously early flight. Getting to sleep the night before was impossible. I had been up late rummaging through camera batteries and chargers; the adrenaline from my excitement spurring me on. In an hour, I’d depart from my daily grind— Yangon with its temples and tourists, resounding horn blasts, and intriguing smellscapes— to head for a digital detox.

I was bound for the south of my homeland to the Myeik Islands, known by outsiders as the Mergui (pronounced Mer-gway) Archipelago. Located in the Tanintharyi Division, this collection of 804 islands in the Andaman Sea has become something like a second home to me. Encompassing an area of 2,237 square miles (3,600 square kilometers), the utopian cluster spreads 250 miles (400 kilometers) from north to south along the coast of Myanmar’s long southern prong.

Centuries ago, European merchant ships were well acquainted with the isles as they frequented the mainland port of Mergui. This bustling city was an important trading stop for travelers crossing the Malay Peninsula to reach Ayutthaya, the early capital of Siam (Thailand). Later, these islands became a far-off territory of the British Empire and were subsequently bequeathed austere westernized names such as Great Swinton, Lord Loughborough, and Hastings. When the islands became part of independent Burma, nationalists renamed most of them with local names, the above being rechristened Kyun Pilar, Jarr Lan, and Za Det Nge Kyun, respectively.

After World War II and Burma’s independence, the islands were essentially off limits to foreigners and off the grid until 1997, when they were opened to foreign tourism following limited negotiations between Myanmar and dive operators from Phuket, Thailand. Even now, more than 20 years later, many of the islands remain unexplored and unmapped due to difficulty accessing them and the expense necessary to do so. Those fortuitous enough to have an opportunity to visit will find that a great deal of the islands are entirely uninhabited. Due to the lack of tourism infrastructure, most adventurers opt to hop aboard a bareboat charter or guided sailboat. Some of the islands are small rocky granite or limestone capes jutting into the sea, completely unsuitable for landing. Others, however, are larger than Singapore— jungle-clad expanses with powdery white sandbars sprawling into the sea. In earlier trips when I landed on these soft beaches, my footprints were the first of the day or week.

One thing that always stands out on my excursions to these islands is the pulsating symphony of sound. The waves of perfectly clear, overly salty water crashing over the coral reefs mixed with the constant cacophony of birds and macaques in the rainforest canopy create quite a different kind of hullabaloo than the clamor of Yangon.

Due to a ban on logging, these forests are chock-full of splendid stands of teak, mahogany, strangler figs, and other indigenous vegetation, some of them towering over 150 feet tall. Vulnerable mangrove swamps rise from the brackish water, lining the soupy green waterways of the islands. A complete list of flora and fauna on shore is yet to be determined; though in the 1930s, the forestry department of the British colonial government conducted a preliminary survey of the wildlife. Among the mammals listed were tigers, leopards, bears, rhinoceroses, wild boars, various deer, monkeys, and sea otters as well as elephants, which had been marooned after the collapse of the logging industry. Pythons dangle from the trees and other reptiles such as cobras, lizards, turtles, and crocodiles stalk the jungle floors.

The region’s years of isolation from modern influence has allowed for a great diversity in marine life. When diving expeditions were admitted to the islands in 1987, divers found one of the highest concentrations of sharks on earth. White-tip reef sharks, grey nurse sharks, whale sharks, hammerheads, and bull sharks circle the warm waters in droves. Dolphins, manta rays, mobula rays, and fish are prolific in the coral reefs encompassing the islands. Endangered and quirky-looking dugongs linger near mangrove channels and shallow protected bays, where they graze seaweed beds. Misty curtains of dancing plankton illuminate the water as brilliantly-colored sea cucumbers cling to rock faces. As if the area couldn’t be more tantalizing to divers, every spring, mobs of Sperm and Humpback whales grace the area.

Following a two-hour flight, my plane touched down at the Kawthaung Airport. After passing through the small gateless terminal, past the staff shouting announcements to those in the waiting hall, and trying to avoid the stray dogs running around, I found my way to my driver and headed to the port. The busy fishing settlement, once called Victoria Point when the British ruled over then Burma, is the southernmost town in Myanmar. It’s also just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Thailand, so both Myanmar kyat and Thai baht are used here. I had stayed before at the brilliant Andaman Club Casino, but this time I waited at the port for a private boat to take me farther out to sea— past cliffside views, white sandy beaches, and forests of table corals— to Jarr Lan Island.

Dubbed Lord Loughborough by the British, Jarr Lan Island is one of the most renowned spots in the Myeik Archipelago. Rather hilly, its highest point is 1,350 feet (412 meters) above sea level. From north to south, it stretches 7 miles (11.4 kilometers) and is 3.7 miles (6 kilometers) from east to west. As one of the dozen or so permanently inhabited islands in the archipelago, it’s hog heaven for anyone with a hankering to turn their watches back a few hundred years and experience an unpretentious, gadget-free life.

The captain and I set off for a two-hour ride from Kawthaung to the northeastern bay of the island, where a small fishing village is nestled inside a quiet cove. When we docked, the captain and I unloaded my gear and I ambled along the wooden jetty to my home for the next few days— a modest 14-room inn. Nearby came the chanting from dozens of children reciting lessons to their teacher, a male, in a tiny schoolhouse overlooking the cove.

My hosts for the week were Salone fishermen, whose families only recently inhabited the island. Called Moken or Sea Gypsies by the rest of the world, the Salone are a seafaring people who have inhabited the Mergui Archipelago for around 200 generations. The group I stayed with settled on Jarr Lan Island around 20 years ago due to attempts to assimilate them into the rest society by way of establishing permanent settlements. The islanders of Jarr Lan elected their first village head, U Law Kae, just 15 years ago, and have been constantly improving their side of the northeast bay. However, they retain their roots as seafarers. Most of the 70 houses on the island are built on stilts over the bay, allowing the inhabitants to stay as connected as possible to the sea.

The islanders have established a frequent stream of business in the past two decades. Every three days, a large fishing boat comes to collect the catches of the fishermen. However, fishing isn’t the only source of income at Jarr Lan. Each day, 10-15 fishing boats stop by the island to load up on ice for their catches. The residents also sell cane that grows deep in the island to mainland furniture makers.

In the past, the Salone did not fish in the conventional sense. They lived off what they collected while beachcombing and dove for shellfish and sea cucumbers. On my first trip to Jarr Lan, my group and I met a fun-loving elder at the jetty. A huge chunk of his right arm had been blown to smithereens from an underwater mine, and he jovially recounted the tale. Later into our pierside talk, he asked us if we were hungry. Before we arrived, he had dived into the deep, cerulean water below and came up sporting a massive lobster. He grilled it on a charcoal oven in front of us and served it to the group.

This elder’s stunt wasn’t out of the ordinary. Salone children often swim before they can walk. “We Salone are born, live, and die on our boats. The umbilical cords of our children plunge to the sea,” proclaims one oral account passed down over the generations. The Salone have deep-rooted beliefs of their origins and the origin of their islands, which they believe broke off from the mainland after a great flood.

The day after I landed on Jarr Lan, I felt emboldened enough to try my hand at the seafaring life. I set sail with a posse of men and boys to a pearl farm thirty minutes from the island. The gang demonstrated the acrobatics of diving into the water with a long spear and guided me through strange and wonderful beds of table coral sheltering brightly coloured fish. We made quite a splash: the fishermen in their natural glory donning just their longyis (sarongs) and strands of carved beads around their necks, me, a kind of outlandish aquanaut, with my underwater camera, toe-grip water shoes, full-face mask, and snorkel.

The week saw me belly-full of lobster and oysters, sitting with the village head U Maung Zaw and his wife, Daw Win Lae Maw, who recounted their stories and provided insight to the current conditions of the village and Salone as a whole.

“There are only about 300 true Salones left here on the island,” U Maung Zaw, told me. “Our village elder is Daw Khi, and she’s more than 100 years old. Some of the residents are Christian, but most are Buddhist.”

Ten years ago, the island’s first monk, Sayardaw Kuthalazawti, arrived. U Maung Zaw continued thoughtfully, “It was when he arrived that our village became more peaceful. He changed the people’s hearts and gave them a deeper meaning for their faith. Now, we have our own pagoda, dhamma hall, and even a large sitting Buddha.”

The island is changing. The people are being pointed toward land as new buildings are constructed and electricity flows through each home. The Salone villagers who are inhabiting it seem quite content with the improvements to their lives, but also pine for the old ways, which are steadily blurring into the new.

DISCOVER MYANMAR MAGAZINE · JANUARY-MARCH 2019