Journey through south of the country reveals a desperate population growing ever more angry towards the junta

'There's at least 50,000 dead round here. But many of the bodies have disappeared'

Wading through the swollen waters, we headed out to see the dead. It wasn't long before we came across the first of the corpses, advertising itself with a putrefying stench. She lay on the bank of a paddy field. At least it appeared to be a woman, but it was difficult to tell. The body was so swollen and distorted, discoloured and bloated by the sun. It had been there for five days and was now almost impossible to identify.

About 30 metres away there was another corpse. The man was locked in an agonising position on his back, arms spread out, as if he had been trying to hold back the tide. His face had turned leathery black in the heat, left here to rot, unidentified and uncollected.

"There are many like this all across these fields," one young man said.

Such appears to have been the fate of many tens of thousands across the Irrawaddy delta.

As we travelled through the devastated, flattened communities this week, there were two questions we were always asked: how many were dead, and where were the signs of the Burmese regime's rescue plan?

The answer to the first question is difficult - 22,000 people dead, the regime says, with another 41,000 missing. But that figure has remained unchanged for days.

The answer to the second depends on where you are standing.

In Rangoon, MTRV, Burma's Orwellian state television, churns out its now familiar diet of smiling generals and officers handing out food, engaging in recovery work for the people. The reality on the ground is equally surreal.

Driving in the former capital, I watched two men in military uniform posing in front of a camera from MTRV. An engineer was hoisted up a fallen electricity pylon, getting the city's infrastructure back on track. The two officers nodded their approval and moved on to another stage-managed scene.

Meanwhile, at a school on the west side of the city, helpers said a small amount of food had been delivered by a government official, but mostly there was no sign of assistance.

All week there have been rumours that the army is too busy to help because they are hiding bodies to disguise the scale of the disaster.

The logic goes like this: if the international community knew the scale of the disaster, they could put more pressure on the regime to launch a massive international effort. That would mean foreigners entering a secretive country - and they could stay for a long time.

Resentment and suspicion towards the regime abounds, and when we reached Bogolay many people were almost hysterical. Near the entrance to the city a man roared up on his motorbike, frantically waving his hands. "There's at least 50,000 dead round here and many dead are being collected by boat from the remote villages," he said. "It seems the government has taken some bodies to a special place ... Many of the bodies have disappeared."

Certainly, given the apparent scale of the disaster, it was strange not to see more bodies. We were told some had been taken to hospitals, but it was too risky to attempt to check such public places for fear of being spotted. Government agents and spies lurk everywhere, and several times we feared we were being watched.

But even if the scale of death was incalculable, the stories of tragedy abounded.

Under a tree close to a bridge near Bogolay, a young man was clearly in some distress. "My brother and sister were still holding hands when they died," he explained, throwing up his hands in despair. "Many children died too. When they tried to climb the trees the snakes bit them."

He said the government had not come to their aid and that many people were fearful about reprisals if they spoke out. "I had wanted to take pictures of what I saw but I was afraid the soldiers might kill me if they found the tapes."

Fear of the regime borders on the paranoid at times. Even in such a disaster, few expected to get help - and none appeared forthcoming.

At a monastery an hour's drive from the bridge I met a monk who spoke good English. More than 1,000 displaced people were staying in the monastery, their washing strung out on long lines.

In a first-floor room men, women and children were huddled on the floor. From the window could be seen the monastery's now contaminated water supply below - a thick, green, festering pond.

The monk explained that they had no food or water to give the people and that they were having to fend for themselves, as no government assistance had been forthcoming.

"They have to do something, so they go out searching for food themselves. Every time they are hungry, there's no rice, no food ...

"And water is difficult to find. There is no drinking water. They have to go and fetch it from a lake, by foot.

"Three people died around this monastery. You can see many dead in the rivers. You can see many bodies floating. There is no medicine either, so some people are getting sick."

In a village near the coastline south of Rangoon a bespectacled monk was quietly fuming as he gathered up his saffron robes. His own monasteries, like others in the area, had been damaged, the stupas swamped with murky waters and the structure badly battered.

His was the biggest of five in the area and families were camping out in one of the buildings, a constant chatter of noise as mothers contended with crying babies and adults berated children.

At 67, the monk had seen much in his lifetime, he explained. But never this.

"Many of the dead are floating out in the water. The bodies are wet, there is no wood, so they cannot be cremated," he said. "We've seen nothing from the government. But I hardly expected them to help. The regime is useless. They spent millions on themselves and do nothing to help the people."

· The writer's name has been withheld for his own safety.