Here, almost every courtyard has its pile of clay and its firing pit. Yandabo, on the bank of the Irrawaddy between Bagan and Mandalay, has lived from pottery for generations: river clay, gathered as the waters recede, is transformed by the women's hands into jars, water coolers and cooking pots that then leave by the bargeload for all parts of the country. River cruise boats gently ground on the beach; a gangway, a few steps cut into the sand, and you walk straight into an open-air workshop the size of a village. The settlement stretches along the bank in a few parallel streets and, everywhere, rows of pots set on racks await firing or departure.

The potters' technique

The visit unfolds to the rhythm of spontaneous demonstrations. Under awnings of woven leaves, one woman turns her lump of clay on a low platform while a neighbour, a wooden paddle in one hand and a pebble in the other, thins the walls of a pot by striking in rhythm: the so-called paddle-and-anvil technique, passed down from mother to daughter. The unfired pieces then dry in impeccable rows in the courtyards, before disappearing beneath large mounds of straw that are set alight. The firing lasts for hours, monitored by eye and by smell. In the morning, hundreds of clear-ringing, deep russet pots are cleared from the ash. Each one keeps, imprinted in its wall, the trace of the fingers that shaped it; Burmese buyers, it is said, can recognize the hand of each workshop.

A treaty signed in a hamlet

The place entered the history books one day in 1826: it was in this potters' hamlet that the treaty ending the First Anglo-Burmese War was signed, the one that ceded Assam and the coasts of Arakan and Tenasserim to the British. The contrast still fascinates: a text that redrew the map of Southeast Asia, initialled a few steps from the kilns and the buffalo. Local guides gladly tell the story while pointing out the site of the encampment, as village life carries on around them, indifferent to its own fame.

Lanes, monastery and tamarind trees

Beyond the workshops, the walk heads in among woven bamboo houses on stilts, beneath the broad shade of tamarind trees. You pass teams of zebu pulling carts of pots wrapped in straw, dozing dogs, and kids rolling iron hoops. The monastery and the school often open their doors to passing visitors; a discreet donation is always welcome. From the high bank, your gaze reaches far over the river the colour of milky tea, its convoys of floating timber and its fishermen standing at the stern of slender boats. Those who like to walk continue to the peanut and sesame fields surrounding the last houses, upland crops spared by the floods.

A souvenir in your hand

Many passengers return on board with a small brown pot nestled in their palms, still gritty with sand. Others choose an animal-shaped piggy bank or one of those water cups seen, filled for thirsty passersby, in front of so many Burmese houses. It is undoubtedly the most fitting of souvenirs: an everyday object, shaped before your eyes, sold for a few dollars that go directly to the artisan's family. Irrawaddy calls vary according to itineraries and navigation seasons; when Yandabo is on the program, it leaves a lasting impression of hard-working simplicity and welcome. The ship rejoins the current, the beach recedes, and you long remember the steady slap of paddles on damp earth.