Inle Lake, Myanmar

Myanmar hadn't turned out to be a very touristy country so far. Most of the activities I had engaged in had had just as many, if not more, locals than tourists. It had been a great feeling to know everyone shared and valued the same sights. 'Tourist-only' zones, which locals frowned upon, hadn't crossed my path yet. Shwedagon pagoda, local parks, Bagan's temples and charming mountain villages had all been shared amongst the people and visitors.

Inle Lake, as much as I had contemplated glossing over this section due to my own feelings, provided a different outlook on where tourism may head in the country. I desperately hope my intuition is wrong in the future. Traveling did get ugly at times for countries caught up in the 'ideal destination' tourist package. Inle Lake suffered this fate as an idealistic Burmese fishing village rich in 'culture'. Some had been real while other parts had simply been stomach churning.

The last day of our 'trek', our motorized long boat buzzed along the swampy canals and past wooden homes on stilts above the lake water. Thura explained they were rest houses for the agricultural workers to nap in during those hot afternoons. Again the value of napping figured strongly.

To our left and right, plants grew in rows in the lake-like area: some water-rice and vegetables. The area practised hydroponics -- water-based agriculture -- and created islands made of plant matter that floated in the lake and thus required no watering. The tending and harvesting was all done from small boats, usually propelled by paddles.

Soon the hydroponic section thinned out, as did the fancier villages, and open water surrounded our speeding boat. A mountainous backdrop appeared to contrast the vast liquid expanse. Inle Lake gleamed before our eyes in the afternoon light. Other boats whizzed by too, full, just like ours, with groups of orange life vest clad tourists.

Seagulls flew overhead. Thura handed us all some bread to throw up to the little guys. Their technique was quite masterful and if they missed, a swarm would attack the area in the water where the bread had landed. Our speed caused a light breeze to rush past our faces, sticky with perspiration.

The locals had similar boats, but without the large deck chairs for each person. You could significantly increase load size with those luxuries stowed away. Other small vessels contained one or two people, paddling away. The unique sight, which caused foreigners to dig through their bags for cameras, was the foot-paddler. While the person, typically male, fished in the lake, they stood tall and rowed the boat by wrapping their leg around the paddle and propelling it forward.

We kept speeding on until my eyes finally widened at the image I had been anticipating. I had mentioned before that travel guides, mine being Lonely Planet, were pretty useful tools in a country with limited internet access and low tourism. The front of my edition boasted a man paddling a fishing boat with large cylindrical nets behind him.

The inner tourist in me rejoiced when suddenly this man appeared to our right and I snapped a picture just so I could tell my Lonely Planet to shove it, because I could take that picture too. The book probably should have had a tea shop on the front; they were the most Burmese sight I could think of, plus all of the small talk for the movement toward democracy happened there, so their significance was epic.

The rest of the day flew by fast as we all went our separate ways, but agreed to meet up tomorrow for breakfast. We thanked and said our goodbyes to Thura and his cousin who were off to lead another tour tomorrow. Their cycle never truly ended in the tourism industry until low season. Meeting new people and forging connections every three days must have been an exhausting task not to mention the trek itself.

Allison came by the following morning and my plans to spend one day in Inle Lake turned into two as I booked another night and changed my bus ticket. We ventured out to meet up with the Danish trio and rent some bikes from a shop called PawPaw's, also a restaurant. The bikes seemed alright. I made sure to test the brakes before leaving. Our destination was the hot springs of Inle Lake. I found it harrowing to look for a hot springs when the temperature was close to 40 degrees Celsius, but the bike ride could be nice to contrast the tourist gimmick.

We had ridden maybe a twenty minutes out of the town of Nyaung Shwe down a busy road, sufficiently full of bumps and rattles to really keep one vigilant. To our left, Inle Lake glistened through the trees with little wood homes on stilts along the sides.

All of a sudden, a loud pop cracked through the air almost as if a fire cracker had gone off. It only took the rattling of the handle bars and a bit resistance to my forward motion to let me know that my inner tube had completely burst.    

Our group stopped as we assessed the damage on my poor exploded tire. There was no way it could sustain my weight, so I'd have to bring it back. I urged the girls to ride onto the hot springs and I'd meet up later. There was really no sense in dragging one of them back with me when they could be enjoying their day. Everyone had their Burmese bike experience. In Bagan, it had been my Irish friend, and now at Inle Lake, it was my turn.

Not one motorbike, transport truck, car, or van stopped to see why I walked the silly bike down the road on this hot and sunny day. If I were in Thailand, someone would have stopped, but I had left that country behind. No matter, after just over 30 minutes, I made it back to Pawpaw's. Without charge, he gave me a replacement bike. I checked the tires more diligently this time as the news of the flat didn't surprise him in the least.

Later, after an arduous uphill journey and a water break at a local shop with great lounge chairs, I met up with the group at a nearby restaurant. They had happily found more Danes ready to join this hot spring adventure. I filled them in on what I had discovered at the hot springs area. We could visit a large pool where some locals would admittedly go to bathe at times, or the pricier-than-my-hotel-room pool with lounge chairs, which essentially looked like a hot tub. Neither one sounded authentic or fun considering the current heat.

The restaurant owner described a third thrifty option to us that caught our interest. That's how we found ourselves walking through an old and weather-worn pool area with walls nearly the height of my small stature. Inside, turquoise green water greeted us. No, not even close to the beauty of a Cerulean sea. This was the green which came from years of letting hot water sit stagnant in the same space.

The Danish man peeled off his clothes, the only brave one and male in the group. He put his feet in and withdrew them quickly. We laughed, expecting it to end there. He was persistent and slowly lowered himself in as his face contorted into all sorts of expressions of unease. Even his girlfriend was laughing at the show he put on. My courage only extended as far as rolling my jeans up to my knees and putting them in, really hoping that there weren't any waterborne diseases in there.

I split from the group to hike up to the top of a temple overlooking some of the lake. It was quite the hike all the way to the top and the only company I had up there was a discarded pair of flip flops. Most of the view was agricultural and not much of the lake could be seen from this vantage point. The paint on the statues and small pagoda had been subject to the hands of wind erosion as they peeled and chipped away.

The next morning, much earlier than I was accustomed to, we met up to head out for a sunrise lake tour. The girls had found a local man with a boat and good price. After we waited for a monk procession to pass by, we hopped in the boat. The sight of dozens of red robed young monks carrying their alms touched our hearts this early in the morning.

The serenity of dawn prevailed despite the few other boats heading into the misty lake. We jetted through the reed-filled shores and into the heart of the lake. Our driver had perfected the timing so we could watch the pink sun climb over the mountains and through the haze of the dry season's smoke.

More residents occupied the lake, enjoying the dawn's impact on fish activity. We hovered around some fishermen to we could get our photos, despite it being a total invasion of privacy. The driver did talk to some of the fishermen, so it seemed to be alright. Sometimes, I wondered if the Burmese government paid people to come out here and fish during those afternoon hours as we saw yesterday. It seemed impractical to fish then. I doubted it, but hey, weirder things had occurred.

Our tour ventured onto a silk factory where we saw fibres pulled out of lotus flowers and wound into string to be used in looms. On the second floor, a woman sat at a loom making a scarf with an intricate pattern. All the strings had been pre-wound in a way that determined the scarf's design. Her job was to use the foot pedals to change from beige to tan with the precision of a musician, playing a wood-clacking melody. Back on the main floor, there was a severely overpriced gift shop with a fair amount of products that also graced Thai markets, clearly not made here.

We also visited a blacksmith shop, cigar making 'factory' and jewellery shop. Each time a boat pulled up, someone would holler for the people to start up their work as if it were all on show for us tourists. It wasn't too bothersome as we often did it in my country too, having workshops to show how products were made, while the source would be elsewhere. Seeing the ladies rolling cigars out of leaves was the most interesting part.

The part of the tour that made me stand outside the shop with folded arms, a scowl and a sick sensation burning in my gut was the 'long-necked tribe village'. If we had visited an actual village it may have been different, as we could have at least reassured ourselves that we wanted to see their community and way of life. It still wouldn't have been ideal; most visitors describe them as human zoos afterwards. Instead, we entered an umbrella shop with a few people explaining the details.

Outside the shop sat two ladies with rings around their necks. The rings, which were in fact brass coils, were symbolic and part of the Padaung culture. One was placed on a woman's neck from a young age continuing until marriage. As a subgroup of Karen people, Padaung people suffered in both countries, Myanmar and Thailand, where they resided, as neither country would consider them citizens. In Thailand, their villages became tourist attractions where the draw was so great that the government restricted the Padaung from leaving. They weren't citizens so they had no other option, except maybe to head to do severely underpaid work under the table as construction workers. I had made a point not to visit any villages until now. When I had heard this was included in our tour, I had figured I could handle going.

The disturbing fact was that these poor women just sat there as people took pictures with them or of them all day. One man recognized one of the women from a trip he had taken years ago. He had visited an authentic village where she lived. I kept eavesdropping to find out she lived out here now without her family to make money doing this 'job' as a human tourist attraction. It broke my heart to see families split up because this was the only way to earn a living in a country where the military shuffled them around like chess pieces to accommodate drug crops in the highlands. How uninspiring could it be to sit on a bench day after day so people could marvel at the 'uniqueness' of your culture? Here I was, being one of those visitors.

I had worked with Karen people in Canada -- wonderful, joyful, appreciative souls who had inspired me to visit their home from the sheer attractiveness of their personalities. They loved Myanmar, despite the military chasing them out of their villages. Gunshots juxtaposed with supportive communities where people sang every day while gathering firewood or crops. Those were the images of a land they had left behind that those refugees had chosen to share with me. The woman stuck on this floating shop had been robbed of any of those traits. I couldn't decide which was worse, looking or looking away as I waited for our boat, which seemed to take forever.   

We finished our tour of Inle Lake with a stop at a monastery, thankfully. I needed some time away from being bombarded with these 'traditional Burmese' stops along the lake. I left my shoes at the door and walked along the cool wooden floors to the golden Buddha and surrounding fixtures. I found some calm by sitting on the floor and taking in my surroundings. The red-tinged walls and roof gave the hot day a cooler and darker feeling. There were actually locals visiting this section and I got up to wander past the stands and stands of vendors outside to a little dock.

I dipped my feet in the water and looked out to see more agriculture going on for miles. More houses on stilts stood to my left and right. A rare breeze rolled across my face as I tried to release the tension in my shoulders. This was it for my Burmese experience essentially. Tonight, my bus would leave for Mandalay only for me to catch a flight to Bangkok. I was sad to leave with a bitter taste in my mouth, but I knew I'd come back. One bad experience couldn't take away the lasting impression this country had made with its big smiles, bustling tea shops and fighting spirit.