Hsipaw is a Shan State approximately the size of Connecticut, about four hours drive northeast of Mandalay, along a winding, narrow road that snakes up the Shan Plateau.  Situated in a fertile valley along the Namtu River , it was once one of the most prosperous and powerful of Shan States, its history often laced with that of Burmese kings of Mandalay.  Indeed, the last king of Burma, King Thibaw, was half Shan, his mother being a member of Hsipaw's royal house.

More recently, Hsipaw has become well-known as being the setting of Inge Sargent's book, Twilight Over Burma.  Austrian by birth, Inge had met and married a young Burmese man, Sao Kya Seng, while she was studying in Colorado.  Shortly after the newly-weds arrived in Burma, Inge found out that he was the Saophalong or Ruling Prince of Hsipaw, suddenly making her Mahadevi, Celestial Princess.  Sao Kya Seng proved to be one of the most progressive of the princes of the Shan States, instituting land reforms and bringing about improvements in agriculture and development projects for his people, leading some to compare him to Thailand's revered "Development King," King Bhumibol Adulyadej.  However, what should have been a fairy tale ended suddenly 10 years after the arrival of the royal couple, when Ne Win seized power in a military coup in 1962.  Ne Win detained most of the Shan princes, including Sao Kya Seng and the first President of the Union of Burma, Sao Shwe Thaike.  The latter died in custody, while others suffered long prison sentences.  Sao Kya Seng was never heard of again.  Inge was placed under house arrest and later had to flee the country.

 

The East Haw (palace) where Sao Kya Seng and Inge once lived, built in 1924, still stands today, and the story of the last Saophalong and Mahadevi of Hsipaw prompted me to visit in late 2004.  The palace lies just outside the town of Hsipaw, along the banks of the Namtu River .  A narrow path, overgrown with tall weeds and grasses, led to a set of iron gates, once painted white but now fading, chained together and padlocked.  I peered between the bars at the expansive gardens, which had also seen better days.  The grass was yellowed and overgrown, while the shrubs lining the driveway to the house were stunted and twisted.  A pile of leaves was burning in the lawn, the smoke curling upwards in lazy wisps, producing an acrid odour.  In the distance, the dark maroon roof tiles of the palace peeked above the few trees.

I was about to leave when a man ambled down the curved walkway to the gate.  He appeared to be in his early sixties and was dressed in grey, baggy Shan trousers and a faded green collared shirt.  A wide-brimmed hat shielded him from the late afternoon sun.

"Would you like to come in?" he asked, his English well-enunciated, with an air of pride, as he unlocked the gates and beckoned me into the grounds. 

The driveway curved up and to the right, leading straight to the Haw.  It looked unchanged from the old pictures: 1920s European architecture, two stories tall with Doric columns holding up the first floor and a short, columned walkway at the main entrance to the building.  It had been painted an off white color and was partly covered in ivy.  A bare flagpole stood like a silent sentinel at the front of the building.

"My name is Donald," he said, firmly shaking my hand.  He asked me to sit down on a wooden bench in front of the building, while he excused himself for a minute.  Mr. Donald's dog, thankfully chained, glared at me maliciously from under another bench, growling.  Mr. Donald hushed him as he returned, carrying a tray with tea cups, an insulated jug containing hot water, and jars of coffee, sugar, and instant creamer.  As we chatted over afternoon tea and coffee, other visitors filtered in.  They included a late middle-aged couple from Germany, followed by a group of younger backpackers from the Netherlands, Germany , Israel, and Indonesia. 

Mr. Donald first showed us the meditation house, a raised wooden building along the banks of the Namtu River, just east of the main house.

"Inge used to meditate there," he said.  "In Burma, we meditate.  It provides a source of strength, allowing us to call upon it later, when it is needed, which can be frequent.  Sorry, but the house is a little run down," he apologized.

In fact, the house was in a sad state of disrepair.  The wood had darkened with age and was covered in places with greenish moss.  Upstairs, the floorboards creaked and shifted alarmingly in places when weight was applied.  In some areas, the floorboard had fallen through, leaving holes through which one could see the ground below.  Above, sunlight filtered in through gaps in the roof, where tiles had fallen off and had never been replaced. 

We then followed Mr. Donald to the East Haw, entering via the southern side entrance, leaving our shoes on the columned, marble porch.  We entered a large sitting room.  To one side, a large wooden table held many old black and white pictures of previous members of the royal house of Hsipaw.  Several others, including portraits of Sao Kya Seng and Inge, hung on the walls.  One end of the room was dominated by a huge Shan flag, a white disc on three horizontal bars of yellow, green, and red.  A smaller one hung at the other end of the room.  Piles of books and magazines were scattered about the many bookshelves and tables.  Several mismatched wooden and wicker chairs had been arranged around a large coffee table, where Mr. Donald beckoned us to sit at as he launched into a discussion about his family and Burma.  

"Burma used to be the envy of Asia.  We had universities, we had rice.  We sent rice to Israel," Donald said, motioning towards the Israeli woman in the audience. "Ben Gurion was so impressed he named a street in Israel Rangoon Road.  Isn't that right?" She nodded.

"Now, we are a least developed nation, we can't grow enough rice for ourselves and our universities are closed.  This is my university now, you are my teachers, and we are free to exchange ideas freely here...  They can't do anything.  I can't help it if people come to my house to hear me talk," he added with a knowing smile.  
  
After gazing at Mr. Donald's family tree, one of the visitors asked, "So you would be the prince of Hsipaw?"  He is Inge and Sao Kya Seng's nephew.

He started laughing.  "What's in a title?  You are the real princes and princesses.  You have the freedom to travel and the money to get here.  I am a pauper, not allowed to travel, poor.  I don't even have electricity, like 80 percent of the people in our country," he said, walking over to and clicking an old-fashioned light switch to no effect, emphasizing his last point.  A single bare fluorescent bulb hooked to a generator, a relatively recent installation, provided light for the room. 

"I only have one light here," he said, gesturing towards the bare bulb.  "I would change places with any of you any day."

Before long, we had been talking for over three hours.  It was now dark and, once the sun set, the thermometer had plummeted.  Outside, there were sounds of people milling about, combined with the steady cadence of traditional gongs and long Shan drums starting up, accompanied by the occasional crash of cymbals.  Mr. Donald beckoned us to follow him outside.  "Shan New Year preparations," he explained.

We followed him out the southern entrance, walking around the corner to the main entrance of the haw.  There, a crowd of Shan youth had gathered.  Most of the men wore traditional Shan baggy trousers.  Almost everyone had on jackets against the cold.  Several carried guitars.  Mr. Donald, his wife, Fern, and his grandson, a gregarious, cherubic boy with a ready mischievous grin, stood on the stairs leading up to the main entrance of the house as the crowd continued to gather in the driveway.  Several young men posted a bright yellow sign with red Shan lettering on one of the Doric pillars: mai soong pi mai, happy new year.  Soon, the music started in earnest, the gong set and Shan long drums being played from the bed of a large pickup truck parked on the driveway.  Guitars were strummed and people sang, all in Shan, while we accompanied by clapping to the tunes.

Mr. Donald and his family stood on the steps, beaming.  "A few years ago, we wouldn't have been able to sing in our language.  Things are better now," he explained to us, above the music.

An hour later, almost four hours after our arrival, the music and speeches ended and we prepared to leave.  Mr. Donald exchanged a few words with the Shan visitors then told us, "you can go back with them, they will give you a ride back to town."  We bade him farewell and joined the crowd, piling into the bed of the pickup truck.  There was not enough room to sit and we all stood.  I grabbed hold of a wobbly metal bar attached to the side of the truck bed,  swaying precariously as we rumbled along the dark, bumpy path that led to Namtu Road, the main north-south street of Hsipaw.  Without light pollution and smog, the moon and stars were more brilliant than I had ever seen before, holding me mesmerized until a low hanging tree branch smacked me across the face.  Fortunately, it was only a small sapling, resulting in not much more than a sting, a mild reprimand for my inattention.

On the truck, the laughter, clapping, and singing (still entirely in Shan) continued. The long drums and gongs next to me keeping the steady beat going.  Just before entering Hsipaw town, we passed the police station on the right, a compound prominently displaying the Burmese police crest and a sign, in Burmese.  The crowd upped the volume of the gongs and drums, singing even louder in Shan until we were well past.  Mr. Donald had said earlier, "We are a proud people, with a proud heritage going back a thousand years."  The crowd made sure that the Burmese authorities remembered that tonight.

The truck stopped in town and we all slowly hopped off the bed.  As each of the foreign visitors left, they thanked our hosts in Burmese, ce-zu tin-ba-deh.  As I hopped off, I thanked them in Shan and whispered, mysoong pi mai, earning me initial startled looks followed by broad grins of approval.  The Shan group then headed down an unlit street, the gongs and drums still beating out a steady cadence, slowly fading off into the darkness.
 
Postscript
Less than one year later, many prominent northern Shan leaders were arrested and imprisoned, including Mr. Donald, who was given a 13 year prison sentence in October 2005 for defaming the state and illegally meeting tourists.  His brother and another of Sao Kya Seng and Inge's nephews, Khun Tun Oo, leader of the Shan Nationalities League for Democracy (SNLD), was arrested in Rangoon and sentenced to 93 years imprisonment for "discrediting" the military government and criticizing the National Convention.  He is being held in Putao Prison, Kachin State , while Mr. Donald is believed to be incarcerated in Mandalay.  The Hsipaw East Haw no longer accepts visitors.