On a shallow lake in Myanmar’s Shan State, men slap their paddles onto glassy water and pull through tangles of lotus root to propel their wooden skiffs forward. They twirl their toes around old wooden oars, ballerina-like, to guide the direction of their crafts. Through the morning mist rising off the lake, we gawk, watching them like they are human storks, delicately balanced, graceful, and poised for the click of our cameras’ shutters.
We are on Inle Lake, a marshy amoeba-shaped body of water that lies like a giant shimmering puddle between two brownish-gold hillsides, terraced with corn and soybeans, interspersed with bright sparks of wildflowers and the thatched roofs of farmer abodes. From the sky, the hills are oddly reminiscent of Northern California wine country. It is a land that is a patchwork of muted greens and browns, scrubby, simultaneously beckoning yet relentlessly dry. The lake, then, with its watery abundance, feels illogical. From the vantage point of a low slung wooden boat, the hills retreat, and take their place as background to the ethereality of the lake.
As the boat skims the surface of the water, speeding through reed-lined channels (for our tourist boat is motor propelled), we feel the nip of the cold morning air on our cheeks, our toes. We can’t see much, save the tops of village houses and wood smoke rising above the tall lanky reeds. When we pop out of the channel, onto the lake proper, there is a sudden sense of expanse, and our boat now feels small, exposed, and unrestricted. We squint our eyes at villages and new hotels, dotting the lake’s other side. Our driver gives a quick shout and our boat veers to the left, skirting the lake’s eastern shore. Now we are passing a village whose houses are on stilts, where residents move from one place to another via long rickety boardwalks connecting one precariously perched house to the next. Boats pull up at general stores and bars, depositing customers and patrons who clamber up water-logged wooden steps to buy rice, coffee powder, or to sip a cup of tea and slurp down a breakfast of noodle soup. We continue on until we reach firmer ground. We reach the village of Maing Thauk that today is holding the region’s main market, which circles weekly through the lake’s bigger villages.
At the open-air market, we find an overwhelming array of goods, some meant for tourists—the rows of painted wooden Buddha statues and masks—and some for locals—blankets, shoes, plastic buckets. And then of course, there is the food. The section of fruit, vegetable and meat stands assault the senses. There are heaps of vegetables we’ve never seen before, piles of spices and unidentifiable sweets, stacked chickens and baskets of dried fish, hooves, tongues, and other bloodied animal body parts. More appetizing are the bowls of noodles ladled out of huge steel pots by quick-moving vendors, who sprinkle chilies and bits of fried garlic on top before serving them up to market goers. We spend a while at the market, slowly weaving our way through the maze of stalls, and leave just as the sun starts to warm the earth, and our still-chilled (and underdressed) bodies. We came extra early to the market, and the price to pay for the lack of fellow tourists has been a rude awakening to central Burma’s cold winter mornings.
Thankfully, the day heats up as we continue our journey, exploring the lake’s floating villages and gardens. We visit gold-encrusted temples, dusty antique shops and a lovely restaurant (aptly named “Nice Restaurant”) that serves us large bowls of noodle and lentil soup in a delicately flavored broth, brimming with fresh vegetables. The experience of pulling up to each spot via boat, the drivers vying for a ‘parking spot,’ is oddly reminiscent of Venice. We continue on like this for most of the afternoon, and at the end of the day, just when the sound of the boat’s motor is beginning to wear on us, we pull up near to our hotel. The magic of the lake is gone, we are now just in a noisy, congested canal, where similarly outfitted tourists are climbing out of their respective tour boats. Tomorrow, we will venture into those dusty hills; tonight, we retreat into our hotel, where to ward off the night’s chill, a crackling fire and glasses of a local red wine await.
clarebeardrew 