Sailing Into Adventure on the Andaman Sea

The thought occurred that this might not be smart--sitting alone in a Zodiac on a narrow river deep in the jungle of an uninhabited island off the coast of Myanmar. The surrounding islands were said to shelter elephants, rhinoceros and tigers, pythons, cobras and kraits, one of the most deadly of snakes. And me, the sitting duck; I would be a tasty morsel, my screams muffled by walls of green jungle. Imagination ran rampant.

We were a group of eight, 10 counting Adam Frost, the dive master of the trimaran Wanderlust--which even now awaited our return in nearby blue-green waters--and Carl Brian-Brown, Wanderlust’s skipper. We had puttered off in the trimaran’s Zodiac to explore a river that cut deep into this island, one of an uncounted fling of, some say, 4,000 that make up the Mergui Archipelago. Now, with the river having become too narrow and shallow for the Zodiac to navigate, our group had jumped in to splash along on foot, with the goal of perhaps tracking the stream to its source. It was an exercise in slimy boulder-clambering and mangrove-root-swinging that I didn’t relish. But given the possible alternative, I yelled, “Wait for me!”

Burma was rechristened Myanmar in 1989 by the military dictatorship that, with a coup d’etat, had sealed off the country to outside eyes in 1962. Once the richest nation in Southeast Asia, today it is one of the poorest and most cruelly restrictive in the world. Although visitors traveling with government-sponsored groups have been allowed entrance into this once golden land since 1973, the sudden appearance of glossy “Visit Myanmar” brochures in 1996 was downright stunning.

Absent from the “Visit Myanmar” invitation was the Mergui Archipelago, 10,000 square miles of mostly small islands, some little more than rocks jutting out of the Andaman Sea. The archipelago gets its name from the town of Mergui on the northern end of the string of islands.

During the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries, Mergui was the arrival and departure point for caravans crossing a narrow strip of land then belonging to Siam (now Thailand). It was a harrowing route--rain-swollen gorges, treacherous rapids, mangrove swamps swarming with mosquitoes and leeches, and some of the most impenetrable tiger-filled forests in the world. Nevertheless it was the shortest route between the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea.

In 1760, Mergui town came under Burmese rule. The archipelago became a no man’s land, wild and largely uninhabited. After World War II it was declared militarily sensitive by the Burmese government and became forbidden territory.

Enter South East Asia Live-aboard, owned and operated by the Frost family, who for 10 years had been conducting diving and snorkeling expeditions in Thai, Indonesian and Indian seas. Increasingly disenchanted with the proliferation of dive boats off the shores of vacation-trendy Phuket, the Frosts negotiated with Myanmar authorities and finally received permission to enter the little-visited archipelago, the first foreign commercial enterprise so approved. (At least two other outfitters have since been granted licenses, including Phuket-based Fantasea Divers and Dive Asia Pacific Co.) In January 1997, Liveaboards’ yacht Gaea, one of four now owned by the company, sailed forth on an exploration cruise and reported back that the diving was beyond expectation.

Our group of eight, traveling in October 1997, marked expedition number 21 into the territory. We were a diverse assembly, representing the compass points of North America: Calgary to New Orleans, San Francisco to the Florida Keys. Amazingly, there was but one diver among us; the rest were content to snorkel. Our common reason for signing on, we discovered, was the desire to be among the first Westerners to touch this stretch of the world.

Our adventure began at the edge of the Pakchan, the wide river that separates Thailand from Myanmar. We’d arrived via minivan from Phuket, Thailand, at the port of Ranong, an undistinguished, sprawling Thai town from which we’d be ferried across the river. Making our way through a cacophony of humanity jostling to carry our bags, we crawled, jumped and teetered across a sea of longtail boats to the one that would ferry us to Wanderlust’s anchorage at Kawthaung, Myanmar.

The glorified eggbeater of a motor revved to an earsplitting decibel, we entered the river, passing the docked, rusting hulks of fishing boats turned golden in the descending sun.

It was dark when we reached the Wanderlust, stepping directly on board since our feet could not touch the soil of Myanmar until Adam had delivered our passports to be scrutinized by the powers that be in Kawthaung. Armed with whiskey and cigarettes to smooth the way, Adam and Mojo, a Burmese “guide” appointed to sail with us to make certain we’d not stray, zoomed off in the Zodiac in the direction of the town lights. A giant golden, illuminated, reclining Buddha smiled benevolently down on us from a cliffside perch.

Once they returned, we motored in darkness out of the harbor, but not before Wanderlust’s three young Thai crew members had set off a flurry of firecrackers on deck to ward off “nats,” evil spirits, and ensure us safe voyage. From a Buddhist monastery on a nearby hill, repetitive, wailing chants followed us over the water. Without a doubt, we had entered somewhere else.

Conditions aboard the Wanderlust were clean and neat--with large, sunny decks and a well-equipped galley--if a bit crowded below. We slept in berths tucked here and there within the walls of the trimaran. I was lucky to get the saloon berth just off the galley where we ate. The only downside: I was the last to bed and the first up because the area had to be cleared for the meals prepared by a young Thai chef, who turned out extraordinary Thai food along with some Western favorites.

At dawn I crawled out of my berth to find an Andaman Sea bathed in salmon light. The idyllic white-sand-fringed island in whose cove we’d anchored was perfectly mirrored in still water. Night birds silently winged their way back to jungle nests. A flying fish jumped like an expertly skipped stone, leaving a series of widening pools in its wake. Sharing the cove was a shallow-drafted wooden Burmese fishing boat that silently pulled anchor to drift out of sight around the bend of the island, with those on board ignoring my good-morning wave. In our five days sailing the archipelago, no other water traffic was seen, save for a handful of these solitary, picturesque boats.

These were not the so-called sea gypsies (Maw-Khen) to whom the archipelago has for centuries been home. For the Maw-Khen have never fished as a livelihood, instead harpooning only what was needed for daily use.

Until recent years, the Maw-Khen were born, lived and died on their little kabongs (boats); some still do. They dove for pearls; gathered swift’s nests (the best for the Chinese delicacy, bird’s-nest soup); collected and dried sea slugs, considered aphrodisiacs, to trade with the Chinese who sailed through.

Today most live in villages, rickety versions of Venice made up of a dozen or so thatched huts perched on piles driven into the mud. Off Lambi Island, one of the archipelago’s largest (about the size of Singapore), we anchored in sight of Pu Nala, a sea gypsy village, and Mojo and Adam set off in the Zodiac to ask the headman if we might visit.

We waded ashore through floating filth that included a dead dog lying like a Rorschach blob on the ocean floor. A smoky pall hovered over the village, wafting from charcoal fires above which screens had been placed for sea-slug drying. Shy smiles greeted us as we stopped to admire children and show photos of our own families. From naked babies to small and slender men and women, Pu Nala’s residents were extraordinarily handsome--the women dressed traditionally in sarongs and the men in longyi, ankle-length skirts knotted at the waist, embellished with a Western-style shirt here, a baseball cap there.

Each day included an opportunity for shore exploration. One afternoon we jumped into the Zodiac to ride rampaging sea surges in and out of caves wallpapered with colorful lichen and hung with bats. After dinner on another day, we sat around an enormous bonfire of driftwood on shore, built by the boat’s crew to alert the jungle of our presence rather than to add warmth to the already humid night. Tales were shared under an incredibly starry sky; ghost crabs scattered across the sand in the beams of flashlights.

We never saw the elephants, rhinoceros and tigers reputed to be there. A possible reason why came from a book by George Orwell that I pulled from the boat’s library to read while under sail. Titled “Burmese Days,” it is based on time Orwell spent in this country in the early part of the century. He describes the Burmese jungle as a “multitudinous rank of trees tangled with bushes and creepers” so dense that a tiger could lurk mere feet away with no one the wiser. Beyond the archipelago’s innocently pristine white sand beaches lay jungle equally dense.

The crystalline blue-green waters around us were more revealing. We identified moon wrasse, parrotfish, goatfish, rabbitfish, leatherjacket, Moorish idol, triton, triggerfish, Oriental sweetlips and several pairs of emperor angelfish. In one channel a congregation of butterflyfish rode the surge with large schools of tangs, sergeant majors and taitfish. Paddling about with our faces in the waters around Kyun Pila, one of the archipelago’s Great Swinton islands, we floated over stunningly colorful coral--bright blue, purple, green.

The sole diver among us, accompanied by Adam, came back from the depths reporting similar sightings. With one exception: the exhilarating rush of swimming in the company of sharks.

On our last night aboard, Wanderlust’s engine thrummed into action around midnight in order to motor us back to Kawthaung by the next morning. I awoke to find the reclining Buddha smiling down on us in sunlight and the river already noisy with longtails. But this time we could set foot on land. With Mojo doing his best to keep us together, we wandered a town decades had forgotten--a marketplace abundant with fruits and vegetables, inhabitants in Burmese dress shyly curious about the strangers wandering in their midst.

Then it was time to load ourselves and our luggage in a longtail for an earsplitting journey across the river to Thailand. Fast-forward a half century to Bangkok and home.

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GUIDEBOOK

Mergui Mystique

Getting there: There are connections (without changing airlines) L.A.-to-Phuket on Thai Airways (through Bangkok), China Airlines (Taipei) and Malaysian Airlines (Kuala Lumpur). Their lowest round-trip fares range from $1,060 to $1,270.

On board: South East Asia Liveaboards Co., Ltd.; 225 Rat-U-Thit 200 Year Road, Patong, Phuket, 83150 Thailand; telephone 011-66-76-340406, fax 011-66-76-340586, e-mail [email protected], Internet https://www.sealiveaboards.com.

Liveaboards’ six-day/six-night exploration, snorkeling and diving cruise in the Mergui Archipelago departs weekly every Sunday from Kawthaung. Price, including $98 customs entry permit, is $1,056 in high season (Oct. through mid-May), $914 in low season (mid-May through September). Unlike entry to Myanmar proper, no visa is required.

Participants meet in Phuket, where diving and snorkeling gear are available for rental at the company dive shop. Transportation from Phuket to Ranong is by air-conditioned minivan (a five- to six-hour trip) and is included in the cruise price. At the end of the cruise, the minivan returns cruisers to Phuket.

For more information: Embassy of Myanmar, Information Officer, 2300 S St. N.W., Washington, DC 20008; tel. (202) 332-9044, fax (202) 332-9046, Internet https://www .myanmar.com.