Our introduction to Inle Lake could have been more positive. As our group’s bus wound down the hillsides of Nyaungshwe Township, we spotted a blackened mass of charred metal lying in an upturned field. A plane? We wondered. Then a turnoff to “Heho Airport” confirmed our suspicions. If you believe the government’s story, the plane had crashed two days earlier when its pilot mistook the road for the airport’s runway. Burma wouldn’t want to go scaring tourists away from its state-owned airlines, would it?
Once in town, we began spiritedly looking for a place to sleep. The sun was already low, and as I mentioned last time, Burma hasn’t permitted enough hotels to accommodate all its high season tourists. We’d heard of unlucky travelers being forced to sleep outside. On dirty sidewalks. In the cold. Because they <tongue click> hadn’t had the common sense to book their accommodations two weeks ahead of time. However, the five of us being intelligent Americans, we had a plan. Split up, beg if necessary, and get it done.
About two hours and twentiesh hotels later, we were prepared to reconsider our plan. Our best offers: a gracious innkeeper’s lobby floor or a local monastery’s leftover cells. We decided to keep looking, and alhamdulillah, we found success just as the cold settled in. The place might’ve been a concrete monstrosity. But it had hot showers and a free all-you-can-eat toast breakfast.
We spent the next four days exploring the town, its hills, and the area’s famous lake, Inle.
Inle stretches lengthwise down a long valley surrounded by hills. In Burma’s dry season, the lake’s depth averages just seven feet. In the country’s wet season, the number jumps to twelve. Locals build their homes on stilts to withstand the changing water levels.
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Main Street.
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Elle and I came across this group of kids playing a game seemingly inspired by an equal mix of Kung Fu and high jumping. Two people held a ribbon between them at about head level. Then, a third friend would leap and try to knock the ribbon out of their hands. Sadly, the action stopped when the camera came out. Photo credit: unknown Burmese child.
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The sort of photo any mother would love to have of her son. Photo credit: unknown Burmese child.
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Someone must’ve gotten boogers on my clothes.
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In the mornings, the minimonks would wake us up while singing on their way to collect alms from the neighborhood. It was a little unsettling both how early they awoke and how unbothered they were by the cold at 3,000 feet. Every once in a while though, they would do something to remind us that they were still human.
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Somewhere on Inle Lake is a monastery where the monks have famously taught cats to jump through hoops for snacks. Naturally, we had to see it.
When we got there, though, the cats weren’t as enthusiastic as we were. A woman said the large influx of high season tourists had wearied the cats, so they’d gone into hiding. Luckily, we found something better instead. A Burmese man dressed in a faded suit came in and started passing around photocopied newspaper articles hailing him as a mystical strong man. We doubted he could really hold his breath underwater for ten hours, but the man didn’t allow us to test that claim. Instead, he invited people to punch him in the stomach and try to strangle him. That helped. A little.
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Burma is home to two European-owned wineries, one German and one French. We stumbled upon the French one while returning from an eight hour hike through the lake’s eastern hills. I can’t comment much on wine, but Elaine and Erin—experienced tasters—gave the rest of us a refresher on the discriminating critic’s key vocab. The night faded into (fun) obnoxiousness from there.
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And last, one final great look at Bagan through my brother’s camera. Photo credit: David.
