Kalaw to Inle Lake

Continuing along the not-too-beaten track of Myanmar, I made the bus journey from Bagan, through villages in which horse carriages seemed to be the most common mode of transportation, into the mountainous region near Kalaw, where I’d planned to take a short, 2-day trek through the hills and down to Inle Lake.

In contrast to the dry plains of Bagan, the hills surrounding Kalaw were a deep green, fed by the ever-increasing rainfall. Farms filled much of the low-lying areas, with staple crops of rice, lettuce, and other greens in a constant state of work, as local farmers dotted the hillsides for nearly the entire 28-mile trek. Water buffalo and cows stood stoically as we passed by, with only one forcing us to detour around his territory. Deep reds of tilled soil provided contrast to the lush countryside, making the entire journey easy on the eyes, though tough on the feet, as the recent rains made for more than a few slips and sinks in the mud.

Guided by a 20-year old Burmese man intent of sharing his thoughts on true love and playing as many practical jokes as he could, we twisted and turned through unmarked trails and village roads. The simple beauty of the farms, the hills, the small mountains, and the people along the trail was not necessarily spectacular, but rather serene and calming. There were no grueling climbs to conquer, no climactic pass, no treacherous stretches to navigate. It was simply a walk through the hills, with peaceful scenery in every direction, glimpses into daily life, and appreciation for the effortless beauty of fertile hillsides and valleys. If not for a couple of obnoxious Americans whose vocabulary was limited to 4-letter words at max volume at all times, I think it may have been one of the more peaceful treks I’ve done to date.

Arriving at the shores of Inle Lake, a long-boat ride brought us to the small, developing town. A handful of western-style restaurants fill the scene, but the main draw is the lake itself. Surrounded by floating villages and gardens, where everything from lotus weaving to cigar rolling takes place, the serenity of the hillsides finds its source in the lake itself. Small tributaries lead to the villages, where a rotating market calls a new place home each day. Houses stand perilously over the water, with bamboo support beams bowing in all directions. Locals attend to daily duties from private dock platforms below their homes, washing clothes, vegetables, and themselves in their source of life, their lake. Rows and rows of crops and flowers are tended to by canoe, and talented fisherman row personal boats with their legs to free their arms to collect the nets. The lake is quite large, as it took our chartered boat nearly 2 hours to reach the far village, just in time to see the market close for the day. Tourism abounds, but nowhere near the level of the country’s Southeast Asian neighbors. For now, the calm waters of Inle Lake are only interrupted by the roaring outboard motors propelling the skinny boats around the lake and through shallow inlets.

Biking around a portion of the lake on my last afternoon in search of a recommended seafood meal, my encounter was a wonderful summary of my experience in Myanmar. The restaurant consisted of a series of Bungalows situated over a small pond, rice fields and mountains providing a 5-star backdrop to a delicious seafood soup and rice feast that cost just over $2 each. Save for a small group of locals who asked to take a picture with us, we were the only visitors around, and when it came time to pay, there was a mad dash within the family to locate the one who could speak the best English. Turns out, it was the youngest, a girl no more than 7 or 8, as she approached the two of us and began to speak in the most surprisingly clear and correct English and sentence structure:

“Was it a good meal?”

“Yes, very delicious.”

“Did you enjoy your time here?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

“Will you tell your friends?”

“Yes, I will recommend this place to everyone I meet.”

With a shy smile on her face, she nervously said her farewell with the innocence only a child can have:

“I hope you come back to see me.”

I hope so, too. I hope so, too.

Bagan, Myanmar

Some places carry with them a mystique that’s hard to pin down. They exude an aura of mystery, of wonder, of beauty that is only truly understood when you’re sitting in the midst of it all. Machu Picchu carries this mystique, this aura. I can now confidently say that I’ve found another place on Earth with the same gravity.

The 2000 some odd temples of Bagan, Myanmar dot the vast plain like constellations in the night sky. From each vantage point in the 40 square mile area, a new perspective, a slightly different, yet every bit as inspiring a landscape can be found. The temples are remnants from a golden era, when the wealthy region was home to 7-8 times more temples, each belonging to one of the city’s families. The decorations have long since faded, but the simple, red brick foundations have, for the most part, lasted the test of time. Today, some families still remain, as fields are plowed outside basic huts that sit next to 1000-year old temples.

Bagan is a backpacker’s kind of tourist destination. Especially in the low season, the freedom allotted to explore and create your own custom itinerary, with no time limits or restrictions, is exhilarating. Electric scooters are available for just a couple dollars a day. With a charge that lasts (almost) all day, the dirt roads lead you on a treasure hunt of limitless possibilities. Roads turn to tracks, which turn into crop fields, which turn into, in my case at least, empty and overgrown river beds that are somewhat difficult to maneuver through. No matter, once the path was found again, it was off to another set of awe-inspiring temples and views to match. These side tracks are free of tour buses and sensible tourists, leaving only the adventurous spirits keen on exploring the mystery of it all. Sun up to sun down was spent navigating the maze of must-sees and hidden gems, with both the start and finish of each day spent atop the perch our small crew’s temporary private temple.

I imagine that, as Myanmar grows into the tourist destination it’s bound to become, the experience of Bagan will change. Roads will be paved, restrictions will be set, paths will be blocked, and temples will be closed. The magic will still remain, though the adventure may not. I think it’s this combination that brought me such contentment to me during my stay. Completely in my element racing around nearly untouched land, while at the same time being constantly inspired by the mystery and beauty that surrounded me, smack dab in the middle of what would no doubt be a wonder of the world, if not for some shabby reconstruction and conservation efforts.

As we raced across the plain in search of the perfect sunset temple, we passed a fellow group of backpackers that had laid claim to a temple of their own. Joining them at the top, we all sat in awe of the view and the moment. A group of adventurous souls, from all around the world, gathered on the top of 1000-year old temple in the middle of a vast plain protected by distant mountain ranges, sharing playful banter about our origin countries and staring in silence as the sun disappeared behind mountains and dusk settled on the land of spires and mystery. Another day in the books, not soon to be forgotten.

Damn, it feels good to be a traveler.

The Yangon Circle Train

I arrived in Yangon, Myanmar, not quite sure what to expect. I’d heard rave reviews from other travellers as they relished in the somewhat unspoiled, though certainly well-trodden, backpacker trail. Having only recently opened up (some) borders in 2012, Myanmar is one of those places snobby travellers will brag about visiting before it “got big.” No matter how far you may travel across the globe, hipsters will be hip.

Anyways, there’s not a whole lot on offer in Yangon, a city that contrasts many other cities in Southeast Asia if not simply because there are no motorbikes. I had not seen such a large amount of cars crammed together in quite some time, making for some longer than expected cab rides around town. There’s a clear Indian influence that’s much stronger in Myanmar than the rest of the countries I’ve visited, as evidenced by the much darker skin complexion, the ubiquitous chewing tobacco-like paan carts, and the lungis worn by nearly all men. The people are almost universally friendly and pleasant, speaking more than serviceable English. The touts have yet to master, for the most part, the tourist scams and tricks so common in the rest of Asia, and I found myself a bit shocked by the fact that not everything could be bartered for.

The main sight in the city is the Schwedagon Pagoda, a towering gold pagoda that stands out as the most awe-inspiring of all I’ve seen thus far, which is a lot of pagodas, mind you. The top ornament contains something like 1800 carats worth of diamonds, along with many other jewels and gemstones. Throw in throngs of monks and pilgrims alike, worshiping at the many smaller shrines surrounding the giant spire, and it’s tough not to appreciate the splendor of it all.

The highlight of my time in Yangon however, wasn’t necessarily a sight in itself, but an experience. I boarded the 3-hour Yangon Circle Train, a commuter loop through the city and its surroundings, with my 15-cent ticket and wide eyes. The journey brought me through the daily lives of the local people, as commuters jumped on and off with everything from fruits to flowers and hats to hardwares. Vendors set up shop at nearly every stop, ready to sell the daily necessities to exiting passengers, before jumping back on the line again. The scenery changed from concrete mazes to markets to rice fields. It felt as though at each stop I opened a door to a new world, a new reality for each of the individuals I caught a glimpse of, before the rickety rumble of the train started again, slamming shut that door that would never be re-opened for me. I watched female monks count stacks of bills, babies take in the scene from the lap of their mothers, faces covered in the traditional Burmese makeup, spring roll vendors pass through the lanes of the carriage, children reach out windows to grab passing branches, and laborers waist deep in flooded rice fields, all through a distorted lens from a steady, incessant rainstorm. People stared, and people smiled, as I hung outside the carriage at each stop, taking in the view from my temporary front porch for the day.

“Where are you going??” confused locals would yell from the platform as the train crawled away. I’d give them a finger twirl signifying I was going all the way around, and they’d smile, with a thumbs up and a wave. Around I went, not concerned with the time that passed or where the next stop brought me, as I knew I’d experience something to cherish, to appreciate, to remember. I let their world come to me, with eyes glued, ears open, and face exposed to the passing wind, knowing that the stinging rain drops and the dastardly smells and the sometimes unpleasant sights were all part of experiencing the mystical beauty of a life and a world that, on the surface, was so foreign to mine.

What was I saying about a train?