Letter from Burma: Life under a military dictatorship has its advantages. Falling asleep on the bus from Rangoon to Mawlamyine, I was awoken by a smiling young man handing me my wallet. It had fallen from my pocket, he said.
Despite widespread poverty, even petty crimes against tourists are rare in Burma; perpetrators are severely punished by the regime for interfering with the sacred tourism cash cow.
The bus journey to Mawlamyine is gruelling and not for the faint-hearted. Hurtling down the potholed roads at breakneck speed to a soundtrack of deafeningly loud Burmese rap music, our bus stopped twice with punctured tires. Without a spare, rear tires were shifted to the front and we eventually arrived riding on four bald tires instead of six.
Mawlamyine - the capital of restive Mon state - was briefly the capital of British-owned Burma. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries it was a cosmopolitan city home to large numbers of colonial expats, Buddhists, Muslims and Indian Hindus. Rudyard Kipling once lived here, as did George Orwell, who worked as a colonial policeman.
Today the town is a crumbling backwater but it retains some of its former glory with wonderfully decrepit colonial buildings.
Sipping a beer on the patio of the former British naval headquarters, a cool breeze blowing in from the Thanlwin river, it's easy to forget that this is one of the most repressive military dictatorships in the world. Contrary to expectations, there are no sand-bagged gun emplacements, no rough-necked gun-toting soldiers conducting body searches.
On the surface, Mawlamyine, like much of Burma, has the appearance of relative normalcy. But appearances can be deceptive.
I'd come to meet Soe (not his real name), a trained lawyer and former student leader who played a prominent role in the 1988 pro-democracy uprising. He now ekes out a living pedalling tourists around town in a battered old trisaw. "I love the law, so I cannot work here," he later explained.
I hired Soe to give me a guided tour of Mawlamyine's hidden history.
Pedalling around in his trisaw we would attract less attention and would be safe from eavesdroppers. Talking politics with foreigners is a dangerous business here.
"This is where the shooting was concentrated," said Soe, as we rode along the riverfront. "Hundreds were killed here. My best friend was shot in the head and died in my arms right there," he said pointing. "Fire trucks were later used to wash away the blood."
In 1988, Ne Win, Burma's hardline dictator, unleashed the army against unarmed pro-democracy protesters, killing thousands in cities throughout Burma. In the wake of the crackdown, Ne Win was compelled to resign but was replaced by his friends in the army, who remain in power today.
On my brief tour I saw where protesters had been cornered between lines of soldiers and beaten to death or later drowned in the river. I saw the old colonial prison where the surviving protest leaders were interrogated before many of them were murdered.
As we rode around town Soe discreetly pointed out the plainclothes military intelligence officers and civilian informers who are everywhere. "They know who I am and I know who they are," he said.
For lunch I was invited back to Soe's tiny one-roomed bamboo house on the outskirts of the city. Raw sewage flowed in the open drains at the side of the unpaved road where children played.
Inside we sat on the floor and ate rice and fish with our hands. A faded framed picture of pro-democracy heroine Aung San Suu Kyi sat on the floor in the corner beside a plastic shopping basket full of neatly bound bundles of old Kyat, the Burmese currency. "My family used to be quite rich," explained Soe.
The old dictator, Ne Win, like the new supremo, Gen Than Shwe, ruled by astrology and superstition. On a single day, and without warning, he cancelled most of Burma's currency, replacing it with banknotes that were multiples of, or included, the number nine. According to his chief astrologer, nine was his lucky number. Most Burmese weren't quite so lucky; as most people here keep their savings in cash, the majority of them were ruined.
As we sat on the floor eating, there was a bang on the door and a gruff man came in demanding my passport. My details were noted before the man left. "Military intelligence - they know me well," said Soe, lifting his longi to reveal scores of cigarette burns on his legs.
After lunch I said my goodbyes and Soe pedalled off with a smile and a wave. Speaking to me was a big risk. I had to admire his courage.