Among the Ruins of Arakan

Arakan, the western Province of Burma extending from north to south (and vice versa, of course) along the Bay of Bengal, is not listed in tourist guidebooks among the places you must visit before you die. The towering Yoma Mountain ranges that separate it from Burma proper have reduced Arakan to the level and condition of an unloved step-daughter. Today it manages to maintain a precarious place on the map only because it has become "a filling station" for the Imperial Sea-planes and for "Air France", as well as for sailing-vessels that come in to Akyab for paddy.

And yet like every other corner of the world, wherever man has pitched his tent, Arakan has its history and its places of interest. On a recent trip through the districts of Akyab and Paletwa, I visited several old towns where there still remain extensive ruins testifying to the ancient glories Arakan once knew. In the chronological order the first of these is the old Mahamuni Pagoda, said to be the oldest in Burma, ante-dating even the famed Shwe Dagon of Rangoon.

Former Capital

Though I have often resolved before now to leave the visiting of ruins to younger legs, the prospect of another ruin in my neighborhood always seems to weaken my resolution. And so I found myself cycling along the six miles from Kyauktaw to Thayetbin in the mid-day sun grumbling to my companion that for a certainty this was the ruin to end all ruins in my life-time.

The dust of the road, the heat of the sun, a burning thirst – all contributed to making my experience a feeling of kinship with the venerable old pile called Mahamuni Pagoda, when we arrived there. My kind companion and guide explained with thrilling eloquence how this was the first capital of the old Arakenese Kings who flourished (to use the terminology of the best historians) hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Here was to be found formerly the famous image of Buddha, deposited by that good man as he was sailing through the skies one day over this very town, and to which image he imparted the life-giving warmth – whatever that is.

At a later date the wicked old King Badaw Hpya of Burma crossed the Yomas by some secret passageway, pillaged the countryside and crowned his nefarious work with the indignity of all indignities – the carrying off of this famous image. All good Burmans claim that the image is located today in the Arakan Pagoda at Mandalay; while all Arakanese worthy of the name will tell you that, on the advent of the invaders, it was quietly spirited away. Between these two schools of thought self-preservation counsels a foreigner to suspend his judgment. (Mine had been properly suspended long ago by the heat of the sun).

In any case the remains of the old Pagoda indicate what a glorious shrine it must have been in happier days. Huge, statuesque lions guard the entrance on both sides – so massive and huge that a man of normal stature hardly reaches to their knees – if lions have knees; the dome of the Pagoda is supported by massive pillars of teak that show no trace of the ravages of time. All around the inter-lacing corridors, large and small images of the Buddha look down on the pilgrim with a benign smile that rivals the features of Mona Lisa.

My fellow-pilgrim took off his shoes and entered the temple precincts to take some snapshots, but I couldn't reconcile myself to follow his example. A toothless old woman loitering near the entrance told me that "the foreign animal" could go in, too, if "it" took off "its" shoes; but I replied that I was quite content with looking on from afar off.

As we came away, we met along the roadside two Buddhist nuns begging alms. They refused to pose for a picture unless we made an offering, and so I paid them for their services as models. In spite of their bald heads, they proved to be true daughters of Eve, and poised coyly for the snapshot. The camera flattered them, because in reality either of them would justify a scientist in concluding that at long-last the "missing link" was found.

Our next stop was at the town called Myohaung, a name that means "old city" when translated. It is famous as the last capital of the old Arakanese Kings. It was destroyed by a Burman invasion over two hundred and fifty years ago. So thoroughly did the Burman Kings do their work, that every member of the Royal Arakanese Family was liquidated.

Today there are no families in Arakan that can trace their ancestry back to the Royal Line. But the ruins extant speak volumes on the splendor of this ancient court. One gateway to the city still remains intact – a venerable archway towering high enough to allow an elephant to pass under it with the mahout and richly-adorned howdah perched on top.

Four walls of granite protected the city, and there are plenty of granite blocks remaining to show how massive these walls were. Strange to say, no one today knows where the granite came from. We walked around the old town reconstructing in imagination the Palace of the Kings . . .

"King's Bolt-hole"

This was a grand old custom of the Burmese and Arakanese Kings – to bury someone alive at the entrance to their city, palace, or Treasury House, thus providing themselves with what they called a Guardian Nat or Spirit. I don't know how the system worked out elsewhere, but at least here in Myohaung it could not be called an unqualified success. In spite of the brave nobleman's watchful vigil at the foot of an old banyan tree, the place is just a second class ruin today.

Even the old king seemed to distrust the idea, because the guide pointed out one place in the ruins where the King had constructed a secret passage-way to provide for his escape in time of danger –called the "King's Bolt-hole." It was connected with some private canal, and according to the historical data I gathered, it seems to have been a much-frequented highway, and a favorite resort of the royal family.

Much of the activity of the palace life centered around that bolt-hole, it appears, and no doubt that ex¬plains why the Guardian Nat did not attend properly to his knitting. He resented the thing as a sign of a lack of confidence.

Close by the palace is the queen's bathing-pool, called "Fragrant Lake." This name proves indisputably that Her Majesty had a fine sense of humor. The scum on the surface was so thick that I was almost tempted to walk on it, and I still think it would have supported the tonnage. The King must have gone in for bathing on a larger scale, as there are still in a good state of preservation the three royal lakes.

One place that caught my fancy and intrigued me a great deal was the Royal Memory House (called Alan Taung) – built apart from the palace on a steep hill overlooking the countryside. Here, according to qualified historians, the king used to repair when he was in a reminiscent mood.

This fact alone would give an idea of the splendor of that regal court – that the king should have had a special palace in which to do his worrying, sighing and remembering. I tarried a long time in the vicinity of this place, conjuring up visions of the old king busily occupied with his worrying – some nobleman, no doubt, holding his head and otherwise being of assistance.

Weary of the gaiety of palace life, palled with the monotonous diversion of lopping off the heads of those who coughed or sneezed in the Royal Presence, the mood would come upon him to get away from it all and be alone. "I want to be alone," he would murmur, and off he would stride, majestically, to the palace or Royal Memory House. The rest of the family, I suppose, would make for the bolt-hole.

I will not tire the reader further with all the legends current about those grand old days in Arakan. Amusing stories are told of how the king would order the hand of a jockey cut off, in the event of the reins breaking, as he exercised the royal bullocks, or even, should they get out of step as they raced past the royal reviewing stand.

Shi Thaung Pagoda

We finished a long day among the ruins of Arakan by paying a visit to the Shi Thaung Pagoda, located at the western end of Myo haung. The name "Shi Thaung" means eighty thousand, and the pagoda is called so because there are said to be that number of images of Buddha set up in shrines throughout the temple. I did not count them personally, though I gathered the general impression that it was quite a modest estimate.

According to the Buddhist belief, building a pagoda is a sure way of atoning for one's sins, and in the next existence the builder is certain to become a Nat, or at the very least a poongyi. To such a one the title "Paya T'ga" is given, that is, Pagoda Builder. Certainly the man who built the Shi Thaung Pagoda must have died in great expectations, because the structure, even at this late date shows magnificent lines.

The architecture is unique for Burma, and it really looks more like a Moorish or Indian temple than a Burmese pagoda. All around its base there are bee-hive constructions that are called "stupas", and looking out from between these are the cross-legged statues of Buddha.

Inside the pagoda the various passageways form a labyrinth that ascends gradually to the dome – with smiling Buddhas all along the way to encourage the toiling pilgrim. The whole structure is of granite, though the nearest known granite quarries are in India. Time has taken its toll of this magnificent pagoda, and efforts are now being made to restore its ancient grandeur.

Our guide was a well-educated Burman called U Hsin (Mr. Elephant) who is the township judge in Myohaung. He insisted that I should enter the Pagoda without the formality of taking off my shoes, and so I was able to get a good view of it from close-up. I did not like his repeated assurances that in case of trouble he would apologize for my shoes, and the baleful looks of the devotees whom we met along the way did not add to hays peace of mind.

Happily we did not penetrate far into the dark recesses of the temple, because as our guide explained, years of neglect had caused many of the passageways to fill up with dirt, and the place was inhabited by bats and other vermin. I was not afraid, of course, though when it came to quitting the premises I felt distinctly enthusiastic.

I had no ambitions for the post of Guardian Nat for the reconstructed Shi Thaung Pagoda. And besides, the whole place smelled to high heaven of the floral offerings and of the incense burnt there in the last two hundred years.

The sun was sinking behind the hills of Myohaung as we left the Pagoda behind us, but our guide was just warming up, it seems, on the delightful subject of ruins. We had just time to see . . . but at this point, I took a firm stand. No more ruins today! I was myself in a partial state of collapse, and would not have crossed the road even to see Buddha uncross his legs, or open his right eye.

After much argument to the effect that it was the chance of a life-time, the opportunity might never come again, etc., we settled for a pot of tea at a wayside tea shop. Soon the bells in the monastery were calling the monks to their prayers, ending my day among the ruins of Arakan, and so I bade my guide a grateful farewell, with the prayer in my heart that some day the cross may succeed the pagoda, and glorious Christian traditions replace Myohaung's pagan lore.