Two nights in Waimanu Valley, Hawaii

When I was little, I was tickled by the idea of animals that carried their “home” on their backs—snails, turtles, tortoises and such. I think I liked the idea that these creatures were so self-sufficient wherever they went. A turtle waddles its way through the garden, gets sleepy…and can just curl up in its shell for its nap!

I wonder sometimes if this is partly why I gravitate to backpacking. I know I like this activity mainly because it’s a way to experience some of the most exquisitely beautiful parts of the planet without a heavy footprint and the madding crowds that follow developed infrastructure, but I think it’s also because I like the notion of having everything I need—at least for a day or two—on my back. Or Drew’s.

Last month Drew and I finally embarked on the backpacking trip we’d been dreaming of for years—the magical, mysterious Waimanu Valley, on the eastern side of Hawaii Island. Cutting across this side of the island are seven majestic valleys, stretching from Pololu in the far north to Waipeo on the easternmost side. Polulu and Waipeo are two of our favorite lookout points on the island, but they are certainly not remote. At any given time there are usually dozens of tourists ogling the view, snapping pictures, and dropping sticky ice cream wrappers in the volcanic dirt.

We had heard about Waimanu through some online research, and local lore suggested that it was not for the faint-hearted. In the rainy season, the trails are washed out and the seven rivers that wiggle out like snakes between Waipeo and Waimanu are too swollen to cross. There are wild boars, bugs, and an initial ascent of 1300 brutal vertical feet on what is called the “Z Trail.” We postponed our trip all winter, blaming the weather but in all honesty not capable of working up the courage and stamina to attempt the trip. Finally, in our last remaining week on island before moving back to California, we committed ourselves to three days and two nights out in the lush landscape of one of Hawaii’s most sacred and remote regions.

As a spoiler, I will say now that the trip was absolutely incredible. It was definitely a lot of hiking (about eight miles each way), but it was not nearly as hard as locals had made it out to be. It helped that while it was hot and strenuous, the hike was not too technical—no scary boulders to clamber over or tides to watch out for like on the Lost Coast, thankfully. The main challenges were the two major river crossings at the beginning and end. The first crossing was at the start of Waipeo’s black sand beach, where Drew and I held hands to steady ourselves and carefully side-stepped through with our backpacks on, the water pressing strongly around our calves. At the second one, only a stone’s throw away from the campsites, the water was significantly higher—we hoisted the backpacks above our heads and waded through, this time the water coming up to just below our chins. Thankfully we made it safely across without any mishaps.

Here are a few shots from our hike in:

Waipeo Beach

 

View of Waipeo from Z Trail (two pics above)

After eight miles and the second river crossing, we were rewarded with a view of what I can honestly say is the most beautiful valley I have ever seen. Words cannot do justice to Waimanu’s soaring peaks, dotted with waterfalls, and lush green interior, but this photo may give you a sense:

We pitched our tent at a campsite right next to the beach, sheltered by big black oval-shaped rocks, smoothed down by the sea, and palm trees that made a sort of lean-to structure. The only downside was that it was about a 15 minute walk into the valley to pump water at a mosquito-infested spring, but once that was done we took off our shoes, pulled out the therma-rests and proceeded to make a feast (highlights being ramen noodles with eggplant and our famous ‘mexican hot chocolate’). After the long hike in and the multiple dinner courses, we fell soundly asleep to the sound of crashing waves, the Pacific Ocean in all her glory at our feet.

Me resting the next morning….

…while Drew pumps us water!

I think my favorite part of the trip was the fact that we camped out for two nights, which meant that when we woke up the first morning, rather than pack up and out, we had an entire day stretching before us, beckoning us to lounge around gazing up at waterfalls and craggy peaks while resting our weary limbs. We had no reading materials and so were forced to switch between staring endlessly at the panoramic view of the valley around us, hopping in the ocean for some quick dips and munching on dried bananas and sausage (guess who was eating which?). Poor us. Here are some pictures of our most enjoyable and relaxing second day:

The third morning we said good-bye to our lovely surroundings and made the long trek back. We made good time and rewarded ourselves at the Waipeo black sand beach with peanut butter and date sandwiches and a quick swim. We managed to get a lift up to our car from a nice local guy in a verrry old truck, and loaded ourselves back into the Golden Beast. We had sushi dinner with Mona and Jia Ching on the horizon, but I couldn’t resist stopping for a little Roselani treat on our drive through Honoka’a. Ice cream never tasted so good.

A month in review

Charmalla, Hyderabad

In terms of numbers, we traveled for 26 days, stayed in 10 hotels (camped once), took 9 flights together, explored temples and mosques from 7 different dynasties/eras, were scuba buddies 6 times, carried 5 Patagonia pieces of luggage, visited 4 countries, got mildly sick 3 times (Drew), saw the sunrise twice, and were only forced to check a bag once. In terms of the immeasurable, we took thousands of pictures, ate oodles of noodles, consulted the Lonely Planet perhaps a few too many times, played Welder (Clare) and Maze Crusade (Drew) endlessly in airports, and saw a countless number of beautiful and intriguing sights.

We began our journey under the sea—two days of diving off the southwest coast of Thailand—and ended on a hill overlooking the city of Hyderabad, at the Palace Falaknuma.  The arc of our voyage stretched across Burma and Cambodia, where we biked around ancient temples and sampled various culinary delights. In our first week we soaked in the peace and tranquility of the Golden Buddha resort—rarely leaving the veranda of our ocean-view teak bungalow, excepting for delicious mealtimes. Our trip then picked up its pace, and by the end we found ourselves immersed in the cacophony of a Sikh parade on the frenetic streets of Old Delhi, and in the chaos that is the Taj Mahal on New Year’s Day. We spent our first Christmas as a married couple clambering amidst the ruins of Angkor Wat, and New Year’s Eve drinking and dancing at a nightclub in New Delhi’s Samrat Hotel. We finished our trip with too many highlights to be able to pick a favorite, too many experiences to recount them all, and too many photos for anyone but our parents to withstand. We hope that these smatterings of images and reflections give at least a taste of our month-long trip through Asia. For the real flavor—well, you will just have to go and see (and eat!) for yourself.

New Year’s Day 2014 at the Taj Mahal

Palace Falaknuma, Hyderabad

Years ago, in the late nineteenth century, a rich nobleman, Sir Nawab Vikar-Ul Umra, built a palace in the shape of a scorpion on a hill, overlooking the city of Hyderabad.  It was called Palace Falaknuma. The lavish palace was so admired by the sixth Nizam of Hyderabad, Mehboob Ali Pasha, that Sir Vikar, the Nizam’s brother-in-law, offered it to him as a gift. The Nizam took up residence at the palace, immersing himself and his family in its luxury and opulence. His library, a replica of the one at Windsor Castle, housed rare books and manuscripts, and even a renowned collection of the Holy Quran, all of which he collected on his travels. On the walls of the large dining room with seats for one hundred guests were murals, each one of which depicted a different type of food—pheasant and fowls on one panel, overflowing fruit bowls on another. It was said that the Nizam would merely point to the pictures of the foods he desired, and the cooks would immediately prepare elaborate dishes with his selected ingredients for him and his dining companions. A room decorated entirely with jade served as a sitting parlor; nearby ladies quarters contained circular “gossip” couches while in the billiards room, camel-leather chairs were occupied by men, smoking and sipping liquor from the Nizam’s extensive collection. Life in the palace took place above the hustle and bustle of everyday Hyderabadi life; the Nizam and his family looked down over their manicured gardens and could only guess, abstractly, at the fears and pleasures, the hopes and dreams, of the ant-like citizenry below.

Today, over a century later, the luxury hotel chain Taj Resorts has meticulously restored the Palace to its former stateliness. The oil in the Moroccan-style lamps that suspend from the portico’s ceiling has been replaced with light bulbs and there are sockets in the walls, yet there remains the feeling that a beautifully dressed princess, or dapper prince, may emerge from one of the ornate bedrooms that wrap around the perimeter of the palace.

We are here for dinner, which begins with a tour of the palace. A young woman guides us around, pointing out the writing desk where an enormous diamond once served as the Nizam’s paperweight and leading us into a dark room containing numerous sets of the royal family’s flatware—mainly English bone china interspersed with greenish-tan Chinese ceramics—and various pieces of tarnished silverware. The tour finishes in the inner courtyard, and we walk alongside the softy lit ponds that run through its center towards the restaurant, Adaa. We pass a private party taking place in one of the courtyard’s side gardens, where lanterns hang and we can hear boisterous laughter and notes of music, a drum beating. It is enchanting, and for yet another time on this trip, we are transported back in history—this time to a bygone era of lavish royal parties, Turkish princesses marrying Mughal princes, stately dinners with only the finest of crystal and best cuts of meat, the visiting of European monarchs, walks about the gardens, high tea on the veranda.

Our meal at Adaa is delicious. We are served South Indian style lobster, in a rich flavorful tomato sauce, tender lamb that falls off the bone with the slightest touch of our forks, accompanied by coriander and mustard seed-flecked green beans and potatoes. “Eggplant three ways” provides us finally with a taste of that delicious dish that is baingan bharta, served with slightly smoky, fresh out of the tandoori oven naan. We gaze out onto the twinkling lights of Hyderabad below, glancing at the large party dining al fresco on the veranda, table candles flickering in the still-warm evening air. They sip wine, nibble on papadums, and there is a sparkling quality to the tableau in front of us, a sense of sprinkled fairy dust. Not entirely unlike the magic of our own wedding dinner just a few months ago. After dinner we walk out of the Palace’s front entrance, past two white horses in royal regalia, their silver buckles catching the light from the glowing bulbs of the old-fashioned style street lamps. We are ferried via golf cart down the hill back to our car, where our driver Abu awaits, opening the door for us, ready to take us back through the dusty streets and honking traffic of the old city.

Lunch near Galconda Fort, Hyderabad

There is an art to eating with one’s hands, but for now we, as lefties, are just focused on remembering to eat with our right hand. We stand out enough as it is, and we would rather not entirely embarrass ourselves or offend anyone with a major culinary faux pas. We are in a narrow bustling canteen, shaped like a train car with windows on one side and lined with diner-style banquets, and it is lunchtime. On the other side of the street tourists are making their way past the gauntlet of hawkers and tour guides to the Galconda Fort, but we are hungry and food is on the agenda before we climb the crumbling ramparts of the citadel. We have spotted this little unassuming restaurant conveniently located directly across the road from the fort’s entrance. Inside, the banquets are crowded with local Hyderabadi families, and two waiters run up and down the galley serving up silver plates with dividers that contain a half section of rice, a quarter section of veggie stew, a quarter section of dal, a bit of achar (spicy pickle), and topped with a chapati. This is thali, South India’s version of a plate lunch. It is simple, filling and tasty. Yet in this casual eatery, there are no menus and no silverware. Sopping up the lentils with a chapati is easy enough, but when the bread is finished, the rice and stew prove harder to negotiate. I glance over at a boy in the banquet across from us. He’s probably about nine or ten, and he is wolfing down his food, using his curled fingers like a scoop and his thumb to help maneuver the soupy grains of rice into his mouth. Funny how something so natural to a child can feel foreign and awkward to us. Hungry, Drew dives right in and seems to do all right, save the last few bits of rice on his plate. This photo, snapped to the amusement (or bemusement?) of the restaurant owner, captures some of the mealtime action.

Morning visit to Taj Mahal (Agra, India)

You have seen the pictures. You have watched movies where street kids give bogus tours. You have heard me say how it is truly the most amazing spectacular human-made creation I have ever seen. How it floats on the horizon, its whiteness and proportions not believable, like a figment of the imagination. And yet…you are caught off guard by its beauty.  It is just after dawn, the crowds have not yet arrived, and the light is a soft yellow, reflecting off the marble and making it look buttery, then rosy pink. You are snapping away, an early morning shutterbug, and I can see that you are caught up in its magic too, captivated by its spell. You half-listen to the guide explain its story, already familiar with the love story narrative, of its genesis as a mausoleum, a tribute to Shah Jahan’s immense love for his third wife, Mumtaz, who died in childbirth bearing their fourteenth child. Of how he was then imprisoned by his son, confined to a room where he spent the rest of his days gazing outwards towards his beautiful creation. We walk alongside the pools and make our way into the interior, you behind the camera as I run my hands over the smooth marble, the inlays of precious stones intricately patterned along the walls. We gaze at the false tombs, the real ones safely barricaded deep below, and look out through the latticework of marble screens. We walk again outside into the light, and take it in from all sides, savoring the quiet, the way the light hits each wall of marble differently, the strange concoction of opulence and simplicity, of pure white lightness.  It is somehow both gargantuan and weightless. The longer we stay, the prettier the light becomes, and the harder it is to tear our eyes, and your lens, away. It is almost too much to take in, a sugar rush of eye candy. I follow the guide towards the gates, it is time to leave, and you linger behind, capturing a few final images in the last of the morning light. We exit, still in awe, stealing glances behind us, hesitant to fully depart. As we enter the fray of cheap T-shirt stands and pushy boys selling snowglobes and figurines, our guide tells us that there are two types of people in the world, those that have seen the Taj Mahal and those who have not. We, the lucky ones, have had our morning in the aura of its greatness.

Old Delhi

Peter, our trusty driver, frowns. We tell him we want to go to Old Delhi, to see Jama Masjid, one of the oldest and biggest mosques in India, and to wander around Chandi Chowk, a bazaar considered to be the heart and soul of the old city. Jama Masjid, he tells us matter-of-factly, is not safe. Nor is Chandi Chowk. There. Are. Pickpockets. Madam! he implores. But we are here to see these sites, we explain to him, we want to see a bit of the color, the chaos we have heard is the ‘real’ India. Ok I will take you to Jama Masjid, he relents. But I do not think it wise to go to Chandi Chowk. I look him hard in the eye. We are going to see Chandi Chowk, I tell him firmly. He gives me a look halfway between worry and consternation. But with little choice, he pulls over to where the main road ends and the windy muddy rickshaw-choked road begins. He can’t drive the car in any farther, but he flags down a rickshaw driver and a lengthy discussion in Hindi between the two ensues, mostly with heated tones coming from Peters’s end. I have no idea what he is telling the rickshaw driver, but I can guess. I believe he scares the living daylights out of the rickshaw driver, who is unusually attentive to our safety and watches us like a hawk as we climb out of the rickshaw and make our way to the mosque. I will wait RIGHT here, he tells us, and wait he does as we climb to the top of the mosque’s minaret for a view of the dusty noisy city below. We come back down and he begins pedaling slowly towards the bazaar. But we only get about one block when we are stopped by a street parade, complete with white horses, and marching band and fireworks. Our driver tells us we must wait about 15-20 minutes for the parade to pass. We sit in the rickshaw watching for a while, then get antsy and tell our rickshaw driver that we will walk from here, and meet him back at the Red Fort. On the rickshaw, without the protection of our air-conditioned car, we are exposed to the elements—dust, honking horns, exhaust, shouting, colors, smells—but we not responsible for our forward movement. Now walking, we are fully immersed, and cognizant of the constant need to negotiate between people, rickshaws, and motorbikes so as not to get squashed, literally. It is overwhelming, but I find it liberating as well, walking through the bazaar, taking it all in, stopping where we fancy.

We nearly bump into two busy food carts, and take the opportunity to try out some street food, which Peter has warned us against. I order a bowl of chaat—fried bread topped with potato, chickpea, yogurt and tamarind sauce—that is crispy, creamy and tart all at once. Drew gets a bowl of dal (lentils) topped with slivered red onions and served with puffy bread cooked on the tawa (griddle), which is equally delicious. We wander our way through stores selling everything from phone chargers to saris, and hear them call out to us. There are lots of little restaurant and food stands and my eyes nearly bug out from trying to decipher what the different dishes contain. There are sweets, breads of all sorts, and more tasty food carts selling dal out of big brass urns. We stop in at a fast-food café of sorts, order a kidney bean curry with puri bread this time, which comes on our plates puffed up like a big balloon, hot air in the middle. Everyone is rushing to and fro, and we seem to be the only tourists in sight. We make our way back to the red fort where our rickshaw driver is patiently waiting, waving frantically as soon as he catches glimpse of us. He pedals us back to Peter, who is waiting with the car in a car park. Peter looks relieved we are safely back, still possibly put out from our desire to explore the less manicured parts of Delhi, to eat things we are not supposed to, to risk a few moments of discomfort in the name of discovery. He waits patiently while Drew and I share a cup of piping hot spiced tea, masala chai, given to us in a little paper cup by another street vendor standing behind a large silver cauldron. Back in the car, I can almost feel him breath a sigh of relief as he shuttles us back to our swanky hotel, far from the madding crowds of Old Delhi.

First Impressions (Delhi, India)

The Delhi airport is new and shiny, no trace of the cracked cement floors, dust and smell of mothballs that I remembered. There are many men waiting for their luggage, fewer women. Outside the air is biting cold and drivers with signs are bundled up. Glancing across shades of brown and varying headdresses (turban, prayer caps, sweatshirt hoodies) to locate our driver, I realize it is a more diverse crowd than I recollected, and a tamer one too. Things feel very orderly, almost quiet in fact. The car park has automated machines, a solitary flower vendor inside a glass shop, a couple of dogs who look surprisingly well fed and playful. On the road it is even quieter, almost eerily so, as we navigate through empty streets, weaving around police blockades, receiving nods from straight-faced policemen in heavy overcoats. We are near the embassies and government buildings, and its midnight on a Sunday after all, which likely explains the deserted feeling that permeates the landscape of our drive from the airport to our hotel. Still, Drew thinks so far Delhi feels more like East Berlin than what he had anticipated. We pull up to the hotel and guards with flashlights check the trunk, the hood, and peer into our eyes. It is impossible to go through such a procedure without a rising fear creeping up, ever so slightly. Where is the shouting, the honking, the raucous color, the cacophony of sounds and noises? I am sure it is still there, but at Le Meridien, with its rising towers and slick lobby, overly air-conditioned, there is only a sense of containment, of a precariously maintained modernism, a cultivated minimalism notable not for the repose it provides but for what is lacking, what is kept away, at bay.

Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Just before sunset, we walk up the giant crumbly steps of Bayon, one of the remaining central temples of Angkor Wat. Enormous faces, with upturned mouths and peaceful eyes, loom above us, then around us. Carved into dark stone, these reliefs are mossy now, wild in both their proportions and their green edges. Within the temple’s recesses lie bats, we can hear their chirping, and in the dusky light, I wonder what other creatures, creepy-crawlies, lie in the shadows and crevices. The air is humid, still, and we have the temple nearly to ourselves. The place feels eery, inhabited, like history might jump straight out from the walls. I expect a tap on my shoulder, ancient ancestors poking their gnarled fingers at me. We have watched Indiana Jones Temple of Doom the night before, and the unfortunate consequence is that I feel that strange feeling of familiarity, of a surreal moment produced by the simulacra of Hollywood. We clamber around, snapping pictures, gazing up at the monumental artisanship of those who inhabited this place a millennium ago. Would they have known the legacy they were creating? Could they in their wildest dreams have imagined us, camera-clad travellers from the New World, coming to admire their work? The sky is darkening and we leave such musings behind, whisked away in our air-conditioned van to our nearby hotel to celebrate, of all things, Christmas. Our hotel plays Christmas music, the lobby is decorated with gingerbread houses and a festive tree, and the temples feel far away.

The next morning, we rent rickety old bicycles and cycle the four kilometers to Angkor Wat itself. A giant moat surrounds this temple, the largest and most impressive of the dynasty. We park our bikes amidst the chaos that is the entrance, and walk past long serpents of stone that line the wide walkway. Walking through the first set of gates, Angkor Wat appears in full, its heft and enormity palpable. From a distance, it conveys grandeur, and a sense of fortitude—the remnants of a once great and mighty empire. Up close, its intricacy reveals itself and our eyes soak up the details—bas-relief painstakingly carved to reveal elaborate scenes from Hindu mythology. Depicted are Vishnu, beautiful Lakshmi, the four-armed Shiva, Hanuman the monkey god, amidst warriors, devils, horses, and elephants. The churning sea of milk holds fantastical sea life, and a fight between good and evil. All of these stories are chiseled into sandstone, large blocks of which are now weathered, graying, yet surprisingly intact. The crowds clear out around lunchtime and again we experience of the magic of having space to explore, to move around unencumbered by jostling tourist groups.

Later in the afternoon, we bike to a set of farther out temples, easily located by looking for the lined-up tour buses. The temples themselves are crowded, making them harder to appreciate, but they are awe-inspiring nonetheless. Even more enjoyable is the biking around and between the temples. We bike along shaded tree-lined streets that are unexpectedly quiet, and soak in the natural landscape within which these man-made wonders are situated.  The first part of our bike ride feels pastoral—there are rice paddies and wandering skinny cows—but as we move farther out, forest takes over. We cross a bridge and gaze out over a marshy swamp, dotted in the distance with willowy trees. We reach another temple, this one quieter, almost hidden by the lush surrounding foliage. We look but do not stop, cycling onwards through gates carved with giant faces like those of Bayon. We are alone now, watched only by the row of statues that line the next bridge, and it is pure magic, the stuff of fantasy, only it is real, the time-worn vestiges of a vibrant civilization. That evening, amidst the gaudy lights and cheap bars of Siem Reap, I am relieved that the hordes of party-going tourists did not manage to discover our biking route. Over bites of delicious eggplant curry, noodle salad and coconut-cashew dip at local vegetarian restaurant (Chamkar, meaning farm in Cambodian), we take stock of the day. The Buddhist temples of Bagan lie behind us, the Taj Mahal ahead, and occupying the space in the middle of our journey, Ankgor Wat sits, timelessly, its network of temples mysteriously spread through overgrown jungle and marsh, its ethereal shapes and sizes making us wonder if we were ever really there.

Noodling around Southeast Asia

Alice fell down the rabbit hole and somewhere down there, Bangkok and Burma got all jumbled up. Culinary-speaking, that is. We had heard Bangkok was the stuff of foodie dreams—cheap eats to die for at endless stands of street food, homey kitchens serving up delicious spicy noodles and soups, alongside Thai fusion and elaborate high-end hotel breakfasts. We expected great food to basically rain down on us, amidst lively markets, temple sightseeing and nightlife. In contrast, Burma, we were told, had terrible food. Oily curries that turned one acquaintance into a fruitarian during her stay there. Get your fill of amazing food while you are in Thailand, was the advice.

True to the lore, the food we ate in southern Thailand, while staying at the Golden Buddha Resort on Ko Phra Thong, was exquisite. In each curry, the spices and herbs were well balanced in such a way that the dishes were simultaneously simple and complex. Each flavor—ginger, garlic, lemongrass, coconut and chili were the usual suspects—was distinct and identifiable, yet combined so that the whole proved to be greater than the sum of the parts. Vegetables were abundant and cooked to perfection: green curries with melt-in-your-mouth zucchini, yellow curries studded with earthy carrots, and a particularly tasty leafy broccoli sautéed in a slightly sweet, slightly savory soy and garlic sauce. A noteworthy dish served to us featured banana blossoms tossed in a coconut chili sauce. The heat was intense, but not overwhelming, and counter-posed with the creaminess of coconut, the dish as a whole was addictingly good. Feeling a cold coming on, I ordered a chicken soup one afternoon. Swimming in the pale yellow turmeric-infused broth were large sticks of lemongrass, cloves of garlic, coins of ginger—the most refreshing hot soup I have ever eaten. And, my cold was gone the next day. The banana fritters—baby bananas fried perfectly to be crunchy-on-the-outside, doughy-on-the-inside—were served piping hot with local honey, and were of course, delicious.

After our four days at the Golden Buddha, we headed to Burma for a week, prepared for bland, oily food. Our first evening in Yangon, staying in Chinatown, we walked out for a late night bite to eat on the street, our expectations low. The street was teaming with vendors, selling gargantuan fruit (jackfruit, papayas, dragonfruit and more), and all kinds of meat, noodles, and fried things. We grabbed two plastic stools at a noodle stand and arbitrarily picked two dishes—Mandalay noodles for Drew, Shan noodles for me. At first bite, I was in heaven. I have no idea what spices were put into that bowl—I know fried garlic was key—but the noodles were ridiculously tasty. Thin rice noodles, little bits of ground pork, green onions, fried garlic and…secret sauce?? Whatever was in there, it was delicious. We thought, its Chinatown, so maybe this is where the good food is? We left Yangon and headed to Inle Lake, thinking again that good food was behind us. And then…we found Lin Htet. Quite possibly my favorite restaurant of the trip, and an establishment I know I will be dreaming of for years to come. Let me be clear. When you go, you must order: Shan noodle salad, mixed vegetable salad, and you should probably also order: tea leaf salad and avocado salad. I’ll start with the Shan noodle salad. Unlike our Chinatown meal, these noodles were ‘dry’, meaning they did not come in a broth, as in a soup. Instead, they had been stir-fried with a healthy amount of greens, garlic, quality pieces of juicy pork, and again, some kind of Burmese secret sauce that I hope to figure out how to re-create one day. I really can’t put into words how good these noodles were, but I can tell you that we licked the bowl clean the first, second and yes third time we ordered these noodles during our three days at Inle Lake. The mixed vegetable salad is a close second in my books, and I again can’t quite describe why they were so good. I know it helped that they were cooked to the ideal consistency—not too crunchy, not too mushy—and that they were tossed with an excellent dressing that had peanuts, garlic, ginger, some chili (but not too much) and a lot of love, amongst other spices. I could eat those mixed vegetables every day and not get sick of them, of that I am sure. Their tea leaf salad—crunchy, nutty, slightly bitter—was also excellent, and the avocado salad—a hefty plate piled with chunks of creamy ripe local avocados dotted with tomato slices, salt and a lemony dressing—speaks for itself.

Inle, and the home cooking of Lin Htet, was the highlight of our Burmese culinary adventures, but Bagan also did not fail to disappoint. Lonely Planet steers one in the right direction when they recommend Aroma II (get the vegetable korma) and Be Kind to the Animals The Moon (crazy name, delicious food, order lime and ginger juice with your meal), but they forgot to mention the breakfast noodles at Black Bamboo. We had a tasty dinner at Black Bamboo—the tofu made of chickpea in tomato curry was particularly memorable—and on our last morning after a magical sunrise hot air balloon ride, we decided to head back there for a late breakfast. Drew ordered the breakfast noodles while I was boring and ordered muesli and yogurt. One bite of his noodles and I changed my mind—the muesli went into a takeaway container and a second plate of noodles arrived. These noodles were thicker in diameter than many of the thin rice noodles we’d been eating—closer to spaghetti size—and came lightly dressed with shallots, fried garlic, cilantro and a diced bright yellow-in-the-center hard-boiled egg. They were flavorful, surprisingly light and hit the spot. We spent the rest of the trip wishing we could have those noodles for breakfast again.

Fast forward through Cambodia (only food highlight there, a fantastic vegetarian restaurant called Chamkar at which you must order the melt in your mouth eggplant curry along with ‘wedding dip’ made from coconuts and cashew), and we touch down in Bangkok. It’s 10pm and we are itching to go out on the town and EAT! We have a lackluster rather oily bowl of noodle soup with icky fish balls across from the hotel but I blame it on the fact that we are staying around Patpong Market—essentially a red-light district (oddly also home to our Le Meridien hotel). We head to Chinatown and I’m ready for a noodle and snacky street food bonzanza. But oddly, nothing really looks that appealing. And in fact, a lot of the street food looks positively UNappealing—bad quality meat, overly fried items, and noodles that just look ho-hum. The ubiquitous signs for shark fin soup also make me uncomfortable. We are a bit confused but figure its Chinatown—we should figure out where the real Thai food is. I won’t retrace our steps through our disappointing culinary tour of Bangkok, but suffice to say after three days, we were somewhat bewildered. We nibbled our way through Chatuchak market (one of the largest open air markets in the world), we wandered around old Bangkok stopping in for a late lunch at Krua Aporn, an unassuming relatively cheap establishment voted one of Bankgok’s best restaurants, we tried out a higher-end ‘chic’ eatery for dinner, and yet an absolutely delicious meal, street food or not, proved elusive. We craved the delicious noodles of Myanmar, a country whose cuisine has been thoroughly dismissed in favor of Thailand’s supposed culinary delights. To be sure, the food we had in southern Thailand met if not exceeded our expectations—but we assumed that Bangkok would top even that. Perhaps it was a fluke, perhaps we just missed the mark entirely during our three days there, but in any case, we are here to dispel the myth of bad Burmese food. If you stay away from the curries (which are indeed oily), which is not very hard to do, you are likely to enter a world of deeply satisfying meals, served to you by people who seem proud to share their cuisine, and who have been spared, at least so far, the hordes of tourists that roam the streets of Bangkok.

Ballooning over Bagan

It is black when we wake, and we put on all our layers under the fluorescent light of our hotel room, bundling up to ward off the nip of the early morning air. A bus picks us up and takes us to a nearby field full of hurried activity. Men are scurrying about, spreading out large swaths of shadowed fabric across the grass. Oversized wicket baskets—which soon will contain us—lie on their sides, and mangy mutts sniff them, then turn to us. As we watch the gas canisters fire up, flames shooting into the inky air, the ground staff serve us tea and coffee, biscuits that leave crumbs nosed over by the dogs. We are going flying this morning, in the most fantastical storybook way—by hot air balloon.

Before we know it the fabric on the ground is puffing and rising, slowly forming itself into the shape of an oversized balloon. There are eight of them, and their dark red color fills the brightening sky above us. They are tethered to the baskets, which are now upright, beckoning us to hop in. First, we receive a safety briefing, instructions for takeoff and landing. Then we are given the signal, and we clamber over the basket’s sides, like kids tumbling into a laundry hamper. Our balloon captain, who hails from Sussex, England, fires up the cylinder, the crew unties our ground ropes, and seamlessly—we are off. The ground crew, smiling and waving, becomes smaller beneath us as we go up, up and up into the smoky pink morning air.  When we are at ‘cruising altitude’, the captain shuts of the flame, and we are caught off guard by the lovely silence, the noiseless floating. We and our neighboring balloons are suspended in the air by what feels like magic, a conjurer’s trick. Below us, Burmese families are waking, taking their morning tea, hopping on rusty bicycles, pedaling to and fro. A few glance up at us, waving, bemused looks on their faces. They have seen it before, these crazy tourists, paying astronomical amounts for aerial views of their sacred temples, their national heritage. We rise higher, the flame shooting up again, and now we hover above the first edifice in a sea of temples, strewn across the grassy dry landscape. It’s strangely a bit like being on safari, only instead of spotting the grey lumbering bodies of elephants, we are ogling the spires and crumbling walls of Bagan’s Buddhist temples, built by an overzealous convert, Bamar King Anawrahta, in the 11^th century. They are all sizes—some massive and reaching to the sky, others like part of a miniature figurine set. (Later we learn that over 4,000 temples were built here over a 230 year period, until Mongol invasions in 1287). They are linked by dusty roads, crisscrossed with horse cart and bicycle tracks, some made by us the previous day during our “e-scooter” explorations.

The sun is reaching higher now and the light’s color continues to shift, becoming more yellow, burning through some of the smoke from village fires that continues to hang in the air. We snap pictures, both of the temples and of the seven other suspended balloons. It is hard to say which is the more interesting perspective, the timeless landscape below us, or the flying contraptions around us, their old-world charm captivating, enchanting. We float on but the hour passes quickly and soon we find ourselves descending, instructed to take the “brace position.” We crouch down, aware that our captain is performing some tricky maneuvering. We feel our balloon lower, then rise, then lower again and swipe against a prickly tree with a THWACK! Our hearts beat, and then with a quick relatively painless thump, we have landed, safely. We emerge out of our basket and are greeted with champagne, juice, and homemade banana bread and croissants. We toast to our aerial adventure, our birds-eye view of Bagan, our magical morning.