Inle Lake

I usually wouldn't consider hitchhiking in Myanmar to be sound judgement, but given my circumstances this morning, I figured it was my only reasonable option.

Unfortunately the Myanmar government has a bad habit of building airports about thirty miles away from where they would be most useful. In Mandalay I paid eighteen dollars for a one-hour cab ride into the city. On the way in, while passing miles of empty rice fields, I couldn't help but think to myself, “Why couldn't they have built the airport here!?”. After arriving at Heho Airport this morning, the closest airport to Myanmar's famous Inle Lake, I had a quick chat with the cabbies who were hovering like vultures outside the arrivals terminal. For the twenty-five mile drive from Heho to Inle Lake the cab drivers wanted 30000 kyat; roughly equal to thirty dollars and two thirds of my daily budget while in Myanmar. In a weaker moment I might have given in to the demands of the cabbies, but my determination was stronger than that this morning.

I walked back to the arrivals terminal and asked around to see if I could pay someone to share a ride to Inle Lake. Unfortunately all I got was excuses. My favorite one, told to me by a group of three local men, was that their car had only three seats and there was no room for a fourth person. With my options limited, I started walking down the long road to the nearest junction, where I hoped to catch a bus to Nyaungshwe, the gateway town to Inle Lake. Fortunately a couple of Burmese men driving a knock-off El Camino picked me up and for 1000 kyat I rode in the back all the way to the junction. After waiting only a couple of minutes at the junction, a rickety brown Datsun crammed with four grown men sputtered by. The driver stopped and after a bit of haggling I had a ride to the next nearest junction to Nyangshwe for only 2000 kyat. I happily piled into the back seat with two Burmese men, brushed the ceiling upholstery away from my face, and struck up a conversation with the driver, Mr. Wynn, as we started on our way.

Conversations with locals in Myanmar inevitably revolve around politics. Everyone in the country is upset about the situation with the government and perhaps it helps for them to let a little steam off when a foriegner is around to hear about it. We had the typical chat about the oppressive military junta and what could possibly be done about it, then the conversation turned to lighter topics. Mr. Wynn asked me about my occupation and I told him I'm going back to school when I get home in August. He asked how much school costs in the United States and I told him that one year would cost me about 9000 dollars. Mr. Wynn chuckled. “9000 dollars is too much for us.”, he said, “But I think 9000 dollars is like 9000 kyats to you.” Everyone in the car had a good laugh about that. I looked over at the Burmese man crammed on my right and he flashed a wide-mouthed grin, his teeth stained black from chewing too much betal nut.

A kid at the next junction offered to take me the rest of the way to Nyaungshwe for 2000 kyat and within minutes I was on the back of his motorbike, cruising down the bumpy road towards Inle Lake. During the short ride to Nyaungshwe I couldn't help but think that everything about what I was doing at that moment was the perfect, typical Asian experience. The motorbike is the de facto mode of transportation in Asia, and a shared seat is the most common method of riding. In Taiwan I once saw a family of five riding one motorbike, but I figure that riding with one other person counts as an authentic experience as well. The bike hummed several miles down semi-asphalt roads as I watched the classic Asian scenery go by. Bright green rice patties were the perfect backdrop for water buffalo and ox-carts, and the silhouettes of blue mountains in the distance were topped with misty grey clouds.

After a brief stop to drop my stuff off at the Teakwood Guesthouse in Nyuangshwe, I was off for a canoe tour of the villages of Inle Lake. My boatman, Mr. Hla Htay, was a jolly Burmese man with a round face and a belly to match. Mr. Hla navigated the canoe through narrow grassy canals leading to the lake, and I chowed down on a tasty lunch of chapati, curry with vegetables, tomatoes, a mango, and three sugar cookies.

The ride reminded me a little bit of my canoe ride through the Keralan Backwaters in India, except that Mr. Hla wasn't quite as motivated to paddle as my Indian boatman was. After about a half-hour we wound up at a bamboo hut on stilts in the water. I had drifted off to sleep in the canoe and Mr. Hla went to the hut under the pretense that he was finding a better place for me to sleep. He motioned for me to lay down inside and, in his broken English, said it was “okay” if I wanted to sleep for a few minutes. Mr. Hla proceeded to pee out the window of the hut, then laid down and was asleep within seconds, snoring ferociously. I couldn't help but wonder how in the world I ended up laying in a bamboo hut in the middle of a lake next to a fat Burmese man who was snoring his tonsils out. The situation was a bit uncomfortable, but I used the time to relax and think things over and when Mr. Hla was through with his snooze we went on our way.
Inle Lake is known for its authentic village life. As Mr. Hla paddled we passed by villagers washing their clothes in the lake, men fishing with nets and baskets, hundreds of thatched hut houses on stilts, floating gardens with tomato and chili pepper plants, and a handful of canoes piloted by kids who looked to be younger than ten years old. Boatmen at Inle Lake have developed a method of paddling with their feet so they can rest their arms or use them to fish. When I saw a man paddling that way the first time, I was amazed that he could do it so gracefully without falling over into the water.
While traveling in Southeast Asia in 2006 I quickly learned that legitimate massages can be had for only a few dollars an hour. I used that to my advantage and had a massage once every two or three days for six full weeks. Until today I hadn't thought to get a massage in Myanmar, but when the manager of the hotel suggested it I gladly scheduled one for the night. I laid face down as a masseuse rubbed oil on my body. The Burmese lady then pummeled my arms, legs, torso, and buttocks, and cracked my back with her feet. Next Tuesday, when I get to Bangkok, I'll pay a few bucks for a Thai massage and get my fingers, toes, arms, legs, and joints bent and stretched and pulled and twisted and cracked. The massage by the Burmese lady was more traditional and felt good the whole time, unlike a Thai massage where the relief comes after the painful experience is over.