Minga-laba from Myanmar

Days at Inle Lake slip by in an unhurried tranquility. Getting here was no easy task. In Myanmar transportation options abruptly become unavailable during the rainy season. A sand bank was the only real obstacle our bus encountered. The women got off the bus and sat under a tree while the men pushed and/or pulled the bus 500 metres onto less sandy ground. Fifteen hours later we were dropped off at an intersection where my favourite people, the taxi drivers, descended upon us. Rates were a staggering US$2 per person at first but we quickly came to a more civilized agreement of 3000 kyats (pronounced chiats, US$2.50) for the three of us. Tired out of my mind I was still impressed by the roomy interior of this 1940s English model of a taxi. Of course I forgot the name of the car immediately after repeating it aloud to myself. I think being incredibly annoyed at one of the Argentinians may have something to do with the short term memory problem.


Inle Lake seemed to have swallowed up the entire town. Once we paid the US$3 fee for the lake area the taxi stopped and we switched to a horse drawn carriage for the remaining watery journey. The water stood two feet deep in parts of the road. One of the bungalows at our hotel had disappeared into the river. The hotel, the Queen Inn, is not mentioned in any guidebook. All the business they get is by word of mouth. US$5 gets you a room, breakfast of unlimited banana pancakes, fresh papaya juice and the best home cooked dinner in all of Myanmar.


The darkness, the murky water, the mosquitoes and the jerky horse cart are to blame for any doubts we may have had. We went from regretting our decision to come to this god forsaken flooded mess to feeling like harty travellers for treading knee-deep muddy water on the roads of Nyaungshwe.


With the morning came the realization that we had arrived in one of the more relaxing places in the world. A boat ride to a cigar factory, the floating market, a cotton weaving workshop where the weaving was done by long necked Kayah women and a parasol maker was accentuated with Indiana Jones moments at Indei, an ancient site dotted with stupas and temples.

All this was lost on the package tourists who hurried along the souvenir stalled walkway to a very disappointing monastery. It pays to peek behind the stalls and disappear into the bush for a walk amongst ancient, overgrown monuments made invisible by pillow cases and marionettes for sale.


I abandoned my group for some solitary walking...okay, so really I was abadoning just one guy who was filling the air with the sound of crap spilling from his mouth. Francisco caught up with me and we had a nice walk while Luisa and Mauro did the souvenir route.


At the jumping cat monastery (named for the twenty cats that jump through hoops) Mauro missed the cats jumping because he was busy at the souvenir stalls, Francisco was freaked otu by a German guy who decided to photograph him and Luisa was disappointed because a layman instead of a monk was holding the hoop for the cats. I just wanted to get out of there because my bladder was about to explode and I was surrounded by water which made me want to pee in the lake for all the world to see. Despite the catastrophic pressure on my bladder I was still able to enjoy the stunning sunset on the lake with its standing, foot pedalling fishermen.


The following day Francisco and Mauro left for Yangon (Rangoon). I stayed behind to visit the 150 year old teak monastery at the edge of town. The monks and I hung out in their bare-bones sleeping quarters for a while where they had fun playing with my digital camera. Here's one of the pictures they took.


Keeping in mind that my visa is only 28 days I decided to head out after a disappointing visit to the 8000 Buddha Caves. All the buddhas in the cave were donated by various individuals after 2002, not Indiana Jones like at all.

The Shan mountains kept me company on my 20 hour bus ride to Yangon.


I arrived today and discovered that the floods that have been drowning the rest of Myanmar have not affected this area at all. There are satelites and internet connections to be had here. Women wear jeans skirts and men wear pants in the capital. Gulab jamon is on sale on the street corners by red dotted women. The Hindu temple competes with the mosque and Buddhist pagoda for attention from worshippers. My prison cell like hotel room costs me a shocking US$5 a night. Welcome to the big city. Now get me the hell out of here!



If you want to see more of my Myanmar pictures click here.