but now, as they passed, all looked deserted.
Suddenly a small island of thick overgrowth divided the river. To one side was a sheer cliff face, which the water rushed past. The steamer took the calmer reach around the island, giving Andrew a view of a monastery perched on top of a cliff, seemingly abandoned and in some disrepair, yet still imposing and breathtaking.
As they nosed further along, Andrewâs attention was caught by a flash of light high in the hills. It took a moment for him to realise that the fiery gold light was the setting sun glinting off the roof of a pagoda which clung to the edge of a precipice. How on earth, wondered Andrew, were people able to ascend to it? It looked impossible.
And how much gold leaf had been applied to the pagoda for it to glow so richly? Moments later he caught sight of another temple, or stupa as he now understood some were called, its distinctive rounded bell shape also shining brightly.
All he had read and heard seemed to be coming to life: stories of chambers of perfumed sandalwood and eaglewood leading to the legendary House of Gold. Its walls were plated in sheets of gold, while a carved vine encrusted with fruit and leaves of emeralds and rubies the size of large eggs embellished its columns; inside a golden casket on a gold table was filled with precious gems; guarded by solid gold idols studded with glittering stones. How much was myth, how much reality?
Now he knew why Burma was the Golden Land â a country, it was said, resplendent in more pagodas, temples and shrines than anywhere else in the world. A country rich in Buddhist culture, rich in natural resources and rich in colourful history. And here he was, ready to explore and photograph it.
1926 â Rangoon
Andrew turned off the Strand, the road that ran beside the river, down a small lane between the solid colonial edifices of the post office, the courthouse and the shipping companies that serviced the busy port of Rangoon. He passed street vendors and their tiny food stalls where the appetising odours of frying noodles and savoury pancakes reminded him that it had been some time since heâd had breakfast. A row of narrow doorways led into cluttered dark cubicles that sold everything from bicycle spare parts to cooking utensils and handmade straw brooms. Halfway down the lane was an entrance marked by fluttering magazines, postcards and an array of coloured pencils. Andrew stepped through the door and into a little shop. The Scottish proprietor was dressed in a white shirt tucked into a traditional checked green and magenta cotton longyi, knotted at the waist. He didnât look up from where he sat, cross-legged on a short stool, reading a book.
Andrew glanced at the used books on the shelves, some well-worn English novels and textbooks written in both English and curling Burmese calligraphy. He turned to the shop owner.
âGood morning, Mr Watt.â
The owner peered over his glasses at him, then stood hurriedly and extended his hand.
âMr Hancock. This is a surprise. I havenât seen you in some time.â
âIt certainly has been many years, hasnât it? I was told that I would still find you here. Itâs good to see you again, Mr Watt.â
âYes. Not since the outbreak of the war, I think. Pull up a stool or a cushion.â Mr Watt clapped his hands and a young Indian assistant appeared from behind the rows of books. âVinay, this is an old acquaintance of mine. Please go straight to the tea shop and fetch us tea. Now tell me, Mr Hancock, what have you been doing with yourself all this time? I thought you might have married and settled down by now.â
âNo; perhaps Iâm not that type. Things have been uncertain for me. I sailed home when war broke out and spent the next four years in the trenches on the Western Front.â
âNot a pleasant experience for you.â
âIt certainly wasnât, although at least I came out of it