My driver is driving at an open pace. It is 5:30 am, the night is over but it is not yet quite the day. The sun has not risen and many Burmese are already busy in the streets of the country's former royal city, Mandalay. They went ahead of the sun to enjoy a little freshness. I have to catch the 6 hour train to Yangon, Yangon in Burmese.
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At the station there is a false calm. Some scattered families sleep on the floor with their luggage. Did they spend the night here? No time to linger, my train is in a quarter of an hour and I have no ticket. At the counter, a crowd seems already installed to last. Difficult to understand which way the line is going: there are everywhere. It looks like a large auction room. We call to each other in the queue which is perhaps not one, we shout, we wait. Maybe we buy tickets at auction in Burma? A man appears by my side.
- Yangon?
- Yes.
- This way.
Between torpor and effervescence
Oddness of the trip, here that, without asking anything, I found the guide who will allow me to catch my train. Next to the “auction room” counters, invisible at first sight, an empty counter! I advance. The man behind his wrought iron gate judges me with a look.
- Yangon?
- Yes
- Passport
I hold out my passport.
- First class?
- No, low cost.
Look of condescension. Pinching lips.
- The train will go at six and arrive at six tomorrow! Platform 2
So here I go for 24 hours on the train.
- OK ! Jezube (“Thank you” in Burmese)
I pay my due, he returns my passport and hands me my ticket.
There is a natural concern among the Burmese vis-à-vis the foreigner. And unlike other places in Asia, they expect nothing in return.As soon as I got into the wagon the train started to move. Phew! A woman leaves me her place. Apparently it was mine. I try to tell her that I can sit somewhere else, but, with a smile in response, she stretches out on the seat opposite mine and goes back to sleep as dry. There is a natural concern among the Burmese vis-à-vis the foreigner. And unlike other places in Asia, they expect nothing in return. No insistent demand or lingering glance to indicate that it would be fashionable to leave a tip. Kindness in its purest form.
A sort of weightlessness reigns in the rustic comfort train. Antoine Besson
The wagon is rustic. The benches are made of wood and face each other. A sort of weightlessness reigns on the train. Almost everyone seems to be sleeping. Only a few insistent merchants carelessly trample the sleep of travelers by issuing their resounding invitations to buy cookies, cigarettes, betel nuts, fruit and all kinds of essentially edible things.
In the midst of this strange mixture of torpor and effervescence, a man leaps by my side, a photo in hand. Feeling the good deal, he repeated " Diamond, diamond " to me, brandishing a photo of a Buddha figurine. I dismiss him with a smile and the antique dealer of the moment disappears as it appeared.
The wagon doors are wide open. No window panes. Only a large metal curtain that some passengers will close during the afternoon to protect themselves from the sun. But, for the time being, the few grazing rays of the east stand out in the flamboyant ones which border the railroad tracks, drawing luminous and fleeting patterns in the wagon. Never has a tree been better named.
On leaving Mandalay, a few golden stupas follow the paddy fields. The countryside is still white with mist. Already this is the first stop, Kyauke Se. The animation is fleeting. Some jump off the bandwagon before arrival. Other sellers are added to those who have already tried their luck with the sleepers of the wagon. We load and unload huge bales, bikes, everything and anything. Then the train leaves. The sleep of my neighbors does not seem to be overly disturbed by these irruptions.
Eat and sleep
On board, the two main activities are eating and sleeping. Antoine Besson
On board, the two main activities are eating and sleeping, as if the confinement of the wagon and the monotony of the journey brought us back to our most primitive nature: here we are all reduced to the first stage of life, undulating according to the jolts. A procession arrives. Two people all dressed in white preceded by a Buddha and a bowl to collect the offerings. The second at the back rings the gong. The moment is solemn and the donors numerous.
Amused by my photos, my neighbors begin to machine gun me in turn with their phones. One of them approaches and brandishes a photo of General Aung San under my nose. " Our leader " he breathes to me.
The sellers continue their incessant ballet. Outside, rice fields and a few trees. The last sleepers emerge, eat and some go back to sleep. In front of me, a man makes a pillow from a rolled newspaper before propping his neck against the wooden armrest. Everyone finds the comfort they can.
The restaurant car cook offers me artichoke tea. At the window scroll images of medieval Epinal. We measure in the light of the Burmese countryside the very recent opening of the country. In the fields, a number of peasants are still turning the earth with a share pulled by oxen.
At noon, a monk sits next to me. His more than approximate English and my non-existent Burmese quickly put an end to our attempt at conversation. A kind of feverish excitement follows the morning torpor. We eat, we call from one bench to another. It is as if everyone knew each other and traveled together.
I go to the dining car. In a small corner, the woman with artichoke tea prepares dishes decorated with rice or sautéed noodles over a wood fire. A man stands there in uniform. He's from the train police. The landscape continues to parade monotonously at my window. A giant Buddha seems to watch the train go by like cows do in France. It is not for nothing that Buddhism is the national religion in Burma.
A glance
The sunset offers a sumptuous spectacle. Antoine Besson
After the heat of the afternoon, the freshness of the evening feels like a balm. It is 6 p.m. Already twelve hours on the train. My neighbors got off at the previous station. Two small sellers are enjoying a break in their seats. They get drunk on the speed of the air. For a moment they are children again. They laugh, then take up their baskets and go off to chase the customer. The 10-year-old boy, maybe less, gives me a look ... If the condemned innocence went up on a scaffold, she could have that look. I still shiver.
As often, the sunset offers a sumptuous spectacle. You are never disappointed by a sunset. Yet after this look, the golden light seems very sad. This unknown child is the little page of cruel misery. Chained by invisible irons, he is forced to become an adult before the hour. He did not choose, he suffered. It is the sheep of the little prince that we can no longer draw. The child without childhood, a strange and sad animal that it is hard to imagine. Indigence made man.
The end of the journey is inhabited by these sad thoughts. A representative of the railway authorities comes to warn me that we will arrive in Rangoon in twenty minutes. It is almost 9 pm and I was getting ready to spend a night on the train. Who of us was wrong at the start? We'll never know. It does not matter. The arrival in the city at night is spectacular. Lanterns, street lights and other illuminations parade through this ink night of nearby China. The lights paint an impressionist picture of an invisible life.
The arrival at the station marks the end of the journey. Like any end, it is a bit nostalgic. On the quickly deserted quay, I look for my little seller and the one I think is his big sister. I would like to make a gesture for them, even if I know that it is useless. Already I am the last passenger. Everybody is gone. Only the train driver and the few maintenance workers remain. I hurry towards the exit. I think I see a shadow that looks like him. No. It is other children who help their mother to carry her provisions. They disappear engulfed in the night. I go in my turn, trusting the one with whom I have only exchanged a look at a sky full of stars. It would be very unfair if in all this vastness, there was not a small one which would perhaps shine a little less than the others, but which would be there, for him!