Inle – Is It Interesting?

All this time I understood the name for this popular Myanmar destination to be “Inle Lake.” After arriving I found that saying “Lake” is redundant. “In” already means lake. The “-le” part makes it diminutive, like the “-let” in “piglet.” Which leaves us with “Dear little lake?”

Except that it’s not really any of those things. “Cultivated Wetland” might be a more appropriate term. Much of the “lake” is in fact a garden. Farmers take weeds from the bottom and use them to build a floating foundation for their crops. The garden beds slide up and down along long bamboo poles that are stuck deep in the mud, supporting eggplant, tomatoes, beans, cauliflower, cabbage, melons, and bananas.

This ever-expanding semi-land, combined with silt pouring in from deforested surroundings, mean that some day the word “lake” may be even less necessary. Right now the average depth is about 7 feet, which explains the unique style of paddling used by local boatmen. Many stand and wrap one leg around their oar, the better to scan the route ahead to avoid getting stuck among reeds growing in the shallow water.

While the gardens and the paddlers and the purple hills in the background make for a nice day’s outing, to me the region bordering the water is more interesting than the lake itself. I’ve seen Scottish lochs and

American ponds that I’d sooner go back to than return to Inle. Certainly the town at the lake’s outlet offers nearly nothing to write home about. Yet there is one time each year, in September and October, when Inle earns the “dear” in its name. Buddha images from a special temple are toured around Inle on a bird-like boat, guided by several leg-rowers paddling in sync.

Kalaw is Endlessly Explorable

Perhaps the most pleasing Buddhist temple in Myanmar’s Shan State sits in a valley slightly southeast of Kalaw, gently tying together the paths and ridges that together create an endlessly explorable web of walking possibilities. The temple’s spire shimmers at the center of everything, like the moon does on magical nights.

We first saw this perfectly proportioned structure after cresting a small hill. We had walked a dozen miles since beginning a three-day trek that morning. Between us and the temple’s village was a grassy bog, ideal for birdwatching. Someone with a painter’s sensibility had spanned the wetland with 300 yards of railing-ed wooden walkway that would have been right at home on Cape Cod.

Of course this village, which might be called Ywa Pu, or possibly Sait Kyar Kone—people here are used to things having more than one name—is halfway around the planet from Cape Cod. It’s a couple of days’ hike from a body of water, Inle, that in these parts is nearly as famous as the Cape. Two rows of stilted wooden houses on either side of a muddy path make up the whole of the village. One or two of the homes boasts electricity that comes from solar cells; in the rest people use candles at night, or simply go to bed with the sun. Televisions at the electrified homes kept even small kids awake as late as 10, but everyone seemed to be up with the roosters in the morning nevertheless.

I got up too, still wearing the smile I had worn since getting off the hour’s flight from Yangon two evenings earlier. Arriving in the cool north, where the air has none of the steam and soot of the big city, revitalized and uplifted me. I needed a fleece jacket at night, even at the end of rainy season.

No road passes this way, but it’s hardly wilderness. Our route passed next to terraced ride paddies, through pine forests, along open ridges, beneath apple orchards, and across rolling fields. Nearly all the land that’s flat enough is under cultivation. We skirted ginger plants and sesame flowers and turmeric roots and several more crops that I couldn’t identify without help from our two teenaged girl guides. Amidst the bright emerald colors of the rainy season, we also spotted tan cliffs, shady caves, and the flash of unexpected silver that signals an ingenious irrigation system.

Now and then we encountered a hamlet. The language spoken there might have been any of a dozen possibilities; our guides knew lots of the local tongues, and they claimed to be able to guess which one to use by facial features alone. Us newbies, to tell a Danu from a Palaung from a Pa’O, had to rely on the color of the turban or whether or not the men were wearing longyis.

Village activities that first night seemed pretty uniform: taking care of animals and children, farming intensively, celebrating harvests and funerals. Such a schedule keeps people busy. When we asked, none had traveled far from home. Indeed, the folks living in WhereverWeWere could rightly have asked people like us, Why go anywhere? After all, on full- and new-moon days, most of the surrounding region comes to them, as hosts of the loveliest temple for miles around.

Dubai is Not Dangerous

Before flying to the U.S. for 4th of July reunions, I packed some presents from Myanmar and Thailand that I planned to bring to friends and family. Included amongst those goodies were a few aromatic Thai inhalers. These camphor-filled cylinders must look like bullets to an airport x-ray machine. The Bangkok security team pulled me aside.

At first I couldn’t think what they could be worried about, but when the guard and I opened the suitcase and discovered the inhalers, we both had a good laugh. Strangely, at the Chiang Mai airport, before taking the short hop to Bangkok for my connection to the States, I had sailed through unchallenged.

A few hours later I approached the third check of the day. In Dubai, all transit passengers must re-scan their carry-on bags. This time a large woman wearing a head covering stood up from her position at the x-ray machine. She was not smiling as she waved me over to a table near the conveyor belt. I knew she wanted me to feel scared of her, but I just smiled and prepared to explain.

Even when she pointed at my second bag, which contained no inhalers, I still couldn’t feel concerned. Then she announced, “You have knife.” It was not a question. I opened the small pack to show her a harmonica that sometimes confuses x-ray readers. She shook her head, taking over the unpacking. It was an awkward moment. I knew I had nothing to hide, she knew she had seen a knife. The more I smiled, the more she glared. 

She removed a book, laptop charger, toothpaste, hat. Finally all alone at the bottom of the pack was a small bag containing Burmese snacks… and my mother-in-law’s six-inch-long kitchen knife.

I was stunned. The last time I had seen that knife, about three weeks earlier, it had stowed away in a package I was bringing back to Chiang Mai from Jip’s village. I could imagine a few different ways it could have ended up in this daypack, but in fact I wasn’t sure. I was sure that nothing I could say would sound convincing to the intimidating man who replaced the intimidating woman. He took my passport and boarding pass with him to a desk, where he began documenting my crime. I began crafting the speech that would explain the true story of the knife’s journey.

“Well, sir,” I imagined saying, “my mother in law loaned me some old photographs. We used a knife to cut the string when we wrapped them in newspaper. Without our noticing, the knife became lost in the package. I didn’t find it until I untied the pictures at the photo shop where I scanned them.

“Later, I tossed the knife in with a large bag of food gifts that I purchased in Naypyidaw. All of these bundles traveled home with me on the bus. Now I’m taking those same gifts to the U.S. It never occurred to me that the knife would still be in the bag….”

I didn’t move as I rehearsed this speech. Something told me to avoid doing anything they might consider furtive. My connecting flight departed in under an hour. I wondered if I would be allowed to get on it. The ominous man walked back over to me to start his interrogation.

“What…” he began.

I opened my mouth to explain.

“…is your nationality?” he continued.

Surely this was a trick. He was still holding my passport, face up. He had just written down my information. There had to be a catch. But on short notice I couldn’t see it, so I simply answered, “I’m American.”

To which he nodded, handed me my documents, and walked away. I made my connecting flight. Before passing through Dubai on the way back to Thailand, I believe I’ll triple check the bottom of my luggage.

Naypyidaw is Not Like Anyplace Else

Quick—what’s the capital of Myanmar/Burma?  If you said Yangon/Rangoon, you’re half right. Practically speaking, much of the country’s future gets charted in the city that the British chose as the capital in the 1800s. It’s still the economic center, and all of the embassies are based there.

But officially the government moved its headquarters 250 miles north to the middle of nowhere about eight years ago. Nobody got much notice. The inauguration of the new capital kicked off at 6:37am on 6 November 2005, less than two weeks after most of the Yangon civil servants who would be working there had first been given the news that they had to move. Secretive planning for Naypyidaw—the name translates in English as “Abode of Kings”—reportedly grew out of conversations between the generals and soothsayers.

Outside Asia, many people still haven’t heard of the city that one critic has called “more a sprawling army compound than a functioning metropolis.” Indeed, this planned community without any community has aspects of a fortress. Naypyidaw’s suburbia-style street grid simplifies crowd control. Being between mountain ranges makes it much easier to defend than a river town like Yangon. And rumor has it that connecting the many ministries and mansions are miles of tunnels.

I had a chance to stay in Naypyidaw this past week as a helper to someone attending a major financial meeting, the largest event ever held there. Had it taken place anywhere else, I wouldn’t have been interested. Because this place simply isn’t like anywhere else.

Vast, and too quiet, Naypyidaw is functional but not fun. The city is able to host the South Asia incarnation of the World Economic Forum by day, but unable to provide any entertainment by night. In the words of one Korean attendee, “It’s easy to get around here, but there’s nowhere to go.”

The roads are wide, empty six-lane highways in both directions. City blocks stretch for nearly two miles, lined only with a few dozen 100-room hotels. There are no food carts, no beauty salons, no bookstores, no bicycle shops, no tour companies, no dogs, no traffic, no clinics. Just hotels. And not a Marriott nor a Hilton among them.

Surreal, yet oddly attractive, Naypyidaw’s appearance is clearly intended to impress. The city’s landscaping budget reportedly dwarfs that of all the country’s other municipalities combined. A large lawn surrounds the parliament building, which appears to be two or three times larger than the one in Thailand. Streetlights stay on all night, unlike most cities in Myanmar, where electricity is sporadic. Five golf courses allow for open-air financial negotiations between government officials and businessmen seeking favors. Everything is spread out under a big sky, complemented by silhouetted peaks in the distance.

I got on the back of a motorcycle to head for the ministry zone. My errand was simple: hand-deliver a couple of documents. Mostly I was looking forward to passing through something resembling a city center along the way. No such thing. Those clever generals perhaps wanted to prevent Arab-Spring-style gatherings, long before such movements arrived in the Middle East.

Soon the motorcycle driver and I found ourselves wandering from Finance to Communications, stopping along nearly vacant roads to ask directions of gardeners. The individual ministries are spaced every half-mile or so, always set back from the streets far enough that they can’t be seen. Which may be a good thing. Viewed up close, these buildings have already begun to decay. Mold and wrinkles cover the exteriors. Inside, you find sparse furniture and an air of listlessness that goes beyond the level you might expect, even of a developing country bureaucracy.

Though Naypyidaw doesn’t have a downtown, or really anywhere that could be considered a public square, there is a telling cultural symbol occupying what appeared on my map to be the exact geographical center of the city. You’re probably thinking: a large monument to a hero? a religious edifice of some kind? maybe a flagpole? No, it’s a museum… yet not one that celebrates particular moments from the country’s past. Rather, Naypyidaw offers pride of place to the natural resource that partly provided the millions spent to transform a jungle into row upon row of pattern-built office space. Yes, it’s the Museum of Gems.

Scotland is Survivable

A walk of any distance involves ups and downs—especially in Scotland, where the topography can get hilly and the rain horizontal. Yet the rewards of hiking there far outweigh the drawbacks. Minor annoyances like flies and downpours tend not to bother the locals. Scotland’s grand and endlessly varied landscapes inspire the walker even when conditions are, to use an ancient but still-popular Scots word, “dreich.”

Weather that qualifies as dreich, we were told on a recent hike, has at least four of these characteristics: cold, dismal, dreary, drizzly, dull, miserable, misty, or overcast. The term also implies “survivable,” as in character-building.

Four of us from the States tested our characters last week on a glorious wee wander known as the West Highland Way. This 95-mile ramble along lochs, across moors, and over bens thoughtfully links up several historical walking paths that show off much of the nation’s best scenery and history.

We set off on a crisp Sunday from the center of Glasgow. Our route would quickly take us north out of the city, but we were in no hurry to leave. We passed imposing old stone bridges and blossoming botanic gardens that fit their surroundings as naturally as a thistle on a mountainside. Urban walking doesn’t get much better than this.

The next day, now fully in the hinterlands, we were joined for a while by seasoned English hill walkers. These guys figured on covering in four days the same distance we planned to do in seven. Listening to their speedy itinerary did not faze us. We knew what we liked and what we liked was taking a long lunch while watching ospreys dive. Or stopping at the Glengoyne Distillery for a wee dram. Maybe posing for jump photos using the camera’s timer delay. The West Highland Way is not a race.

The Way’s daily changes in character offered no shortage of backgrounds for our photos: long valleys, brown ridges, table-flat fields full of newborn lambs. We normally added or subtracted a layer of clothing during our stops, to match the weather’s many moods. The big sky was rarely a single color. Sometimes its mix of chalk and slate and coal could hide an eagle.

The rough countryside invigorated us. We imagined our ancestors tramping into the same wild winds, navigating by the same craggy knobs. In no time, we became nationalists, belting out “Flower of Scotland” at the tops of our voices, and resolving to drink only the native soft drink, Irn Bru.

(Note to would-be Wayfarers: good whisky is nice, but it is criminal to visit Scotland without partaking of its other national drink. In no other land, it is said, does the local carbonated beverage outsell Coca-Cola.)

The week went on. Although the skies darkened, our moods became lighter. We breathed in deeply the northern air, wishing we could bottle its heather-tinged scent to bring home. Breaks in the clouds became more special for their scarcity. During one evening’s emergence of the sun, two of us dropped packs and scampered up a nearby peak for such panoramas as could be found in the mist, while the other two carried on through a glen that glowed with golden beams. At night we dreamt of worthy challenges.

We wished not so much for better weather as for more time to savor the wild goats, the Highland oxen, the romantic place names. Strathblane! Balmaha! Inversnaid! Bridge of Orchy!

Throughout much of our final afternoon, a slashing rain chased us. We knew without counting up the attributes that this was “dreich.” The torrent of shrapnel-like drops would have kept a car’s rear wipers busy. Our feet sloshed and wrinkled inside our boots. Opening and closing farmers’ fences required almost more energy than we could manage.

As the drenching continued, we thought stout thoughts. We repeated aloud the motto for Irn Bru, which is, “It gets you through.” We reminded ourselves that it could be worse—all of our packs were waterproof, none of us was hypothermic, and a warm pub supper awaited us somewhere. Indeed, we knew we would not only survive, but also finish the trail better people than we began it.

Chenaud est Beau

We came in search of France’s most beautiful village. To our surprise, over 150 places claim that official designation. Each one gets to hang a little sign on the edge of town, certifying its membership in the club known as “Les plus beaux villages de France.”

Of course it makes sense to have dozens. How else to reconcile one person’s preference for ramparts, another’s for seaside, and still another’s for vistas?

Over a fortnight, my parents and I managed a pleasing mix of all three while wandering from one Gallic charm to the next. The combination of castle and donkey delighted us at Beynac-et-Cazenac. In Saint Suliac, bordering a splendid estuary, we ordered everything on the menu at La Crêperie Guinguele. The gallettes there were so tasty that when we finished, we almost decided to wait until we were hungry enough to start all over again. Domme’s panorama above the Dordogne River made us want to paint.

We also enjoyed the familiar-as-an-old-sweater kind of village. An old friend invited us to stay a couple of nights in her family’s summer retreat, just outside the Aquitaine hamlet known as Chenaud. About 70 kilometers northeast of Bordeaux, the community is a checkerboard mix of oak forests, purple vineyards, and rolling meadows. Who needs a chateau, we decided, as we drove past a classic old mill, then over a one-lane bridge.

Home to 320 people at last count, Chenaud doesn’t bother with street names or house numbers. Occasional signs point toward beige cottages named with the French-language equivalent of “Hillcrest,” or “Badger Grove.” Our friend’s place, “Bon Jouan,” dates to the 18th century, making it a relative newcomer in the neighborhood. The stone village church has stood for over 800 years.

Bon Jouan’s three farmhouses all feature massive ceiling beams and bats in the attics. A barn stores all the treasures that the extended family can’t bear to discard—bicycles from the 1960s, lawn chairs with only one leg missing, a leaky boat christened “Sauterelle.” Countless styles of windows, shutters, and doors intermingle on each of the structures, all of them effective. Indoor temperatures were several degrees cooler than outdoor during the warm spring afternoons.

At the head of the long drive a waist-high granite Mother Mary protects the compound. Protect from what, you ask? Perhaps from the witch who lives at the bottom of the wellspring. For extra security, we tossed pebbles in that deep hole whenever we passed by, to break the witch’s teeth so she can’t harm any children.

Our friend explained that pilgrims formerly passed through Chenaud while walking the Way of St. James, better known by its Spanish name, El Camino de Santiago. We imagined ourselves doing the same as we took long evening walks along the country lanes, encountering more deer than cars.

I got up early one morning to watch as the sun gradually brought out the yellows and greens of the River Dronne valley. Chenaud’s tile rooftops glistened. Outside the mayor’s office, just opposite the church, nobody else was about. I thought to myself, Those other places can hang out their little signs if they wish—I’ve found the true “plus beau village de France.”

Salween is Superb

What you want in a mountain bike adventure: enough smooth to balance the rough, a bit of wide to appreciate the narrow, and some unexpected to keep the known from becoming too predictable.

Ten of us set off looking for such an adventure in Karen State, eastern Myanmar. We had no goals other than to ride alongside the Salween River as far as the track would take us.

It rained right away. After cycling fewer than ten minutes we had wide stripes of grit up our backs. Amused spectators called to us from a house on stilts. We joined them until the downpour stopped. Under the house hung a few hammocks. On the wall upstairs hung pictures of Aung San Suu Kyi and her dad. Everybody smiled. We didn’t talk much, just listened to the rain. A cute toddler entertained everyone. New faces kept emerging from the back room of the house to shyly initiate variations of the same conversation. When we got ready to go, a grandma came out to wave goodbye.

A paved section of the road appeared, then ended as quickly as it had come. From somewhere beyond the steep riverbank came the sounds of noisy boat engines. Steam rose off the puddles.

In our padded shorts, fingerless gloves, and plastic helmets, we were a curiosity. Few villagers in Myanmar had probably seen the likes of us. Coming out from the comfort and protection of their shady homes to watch us ride past, the people waved the way Americans wave to parade floats and their pageant kings and queens. From the children we heard “bye-bye!” (meaning, delightfully, “hello!”). Adults of all shapes, costumes, and ages greeted us with the Burmese good morning/afternoon/evening: “Mingalaba!” Everybody smiled.

The road became a track. Then, as John Mason's photo shows, a path. Spicing the air were the river’s many moods. Leaving onlookers behind, we passed caves, steep cliffs, and countless shrines to the spirits that many locals believe live on hilltops and in trees. It seemed the trail might peter out any time.

Suddenly, a temple gate framed our route. Just when we thought we had left civilization in our wake, here was a wat, complete with sparkling decorations and colorful murals. A few meters further we came across a school, a sports field, and people wandering from various corners to check us out.

Where were we? And how much further upriver could we continue to cycle? The growing crowd greeted our gestured questions with a good deal of cheerfulness, but not much understanding. It appeared that nobody in this remote place could speak any of the many languages our group knew, not even Burmese.

The answers weren’t crucial. We knew we’d probably return the way we came. Lunch awaited us back there. It just would have been nice to communicate.

Then up rode a guy sporting a familiar symbol. “Hello,” he grinned in English, “I am the local representative of the International Red Cross.”

It turned out that he rarely passed that way. The chance encounter allowed us to chat with the people of the temple. They learned why were dressed in such strange outfits. We learned that a venerable monk from the next village had recently passed away. His body would soon be carried downriver along the same track we had just taken. Everybody smiled. Which is another thing you want in a mountain bike adventure.