To get off the beaten path in Inle, Barbara, Heather and I rented bikes and headed east. The roads are good, |(until they aren't good and then they're violent, but I'll get to that soon) unmarked and save for the occasional truck or motorbike, populated by young kids enjoying the end of the Buddhist Lent. We raced with them and traded shouts of HELLO and sometimes GOODBYE when one of us pulled away. Around one turn, three boys stood in the middle of the road and waved, after Barbara and Heather road past they kept their hands still in the air so I high-fived the three. Pretty sure it's a global gesture.
After a bit we turned off the main way and headed up a rocky, rutted road to a monastery that over looks the lake. This was still a fairly well travelled tourist path and we met some middle aged ladies from the northeast huffing and puffing their way down. The ideal time to climb up this hill would be in the morning but Barb and I had been up before the sun the previous two days and not even the four AM chanting monks and singing nuns were gonna get either of us out of bed. Our Irish friend Erica calls it morning karaoke and I can not think of a more fitting description.
Ditching the bikes about halfway up at a mom and pop shop, we continued on foot through a monastery too a gold clad pagoda with a loud speaker perched on it's side and one monk inside chanting while another slept. We napped, staring up at the gold pagoda silhouetted against the bright blue sky with clouds mingling overhead and the monk lulling us to sleep.
Eventually we made our way down and continued south along the eastern side of the lake. The day before we had tried some great cigars that are only made here and Barb was determined to get some and I was down for the adventure. After a bit, the good, paved road ended and the violent one took over. Hard packed earth with sharp rocks sticking out for several inches. There were narrow motorbike paths from time to time on either side but they proved hard to navigate. The handle bars on the bike were very narrow, amplifying every movement. Heather wisely turned back but the two stubborn people pressed on. I was not about to give up and the cigars really are very good. About the size of a cigarette, rolled with tobacco and aniseed, very sweet to the tongue and mild on the throat.
So the smart one turned back and we two idiots pressed on. Seemingly none of the road was flat. Leg burning climbs and bone jarring down hills that turned one into a human jack hammer pounding away at ungiving stones. Finally, after a hill that nearly threw me from the bike, I hit a rock at the wrong angel and my tire popped. Completely deflated, inner tube blown. In most of this part of the world it would not have been a huge deal. Motorbike shops would be frequent and the fix would cost next to nothing. But this is Inle lake, a place where life is lived on the water. Houses are built on stilts and the main transportation is via boat. Canals are carved out of the weeds between towns and navigated by people who can perfectly balance on the bow with one foot, while the other leg is wrapped around a paddle propelling the skiff forwards. Naked kids jump off front porches into the shallow waters too cool off and the shore town people rarely leave the area except to deliver sugarcane to market.
The first village we came across could offer nothing but fingers pointing on to the next, so Barb rode ahead while I haphazardly dragged the bike onwards. By the time I reached the next village a small crowd had gathered and Barbara was doing her best to mime the recent turn of events. A pump was brought out and an attempt was made to re-inflate the tire but air just blew out of the busted rubber. Now we were at an impasse. Using hand gestures and a few words gleaned from the back of the lonely planet we tried to communicate that maybe someone with a motorbike could drive me back while I held on to the bicycle along side it. I had my doubts about this plan as I wasn't sure how I would manage to hold on to the motorcycle myself over that terrain.
Sometime later, two heavily bearded men came along on a bike and the driver spoke enough English to explain that the town we were looking for was about a a thirty minute walk away. We were about to head off when the villagers erupted into to conversation led by a loud, large woman who believed that we should take a different route, go directly to the lake and then take a boat from there. This route would only take fifteen minuets and so with day light disappearing, we choose this way and headed off the main road down a narrow, sometimes muddy track with the occasional rut that could have swallowed a large dog.
Passing between fields of sugar cane that stretched over our heads we rounded one corner to come face to face with two pairs of huge water buffalo pulling carts. Gargantuan would be a better word for them. Most that you see are rather thin and the size of your average cow. These beasts each had the build of two Clydesdale's strapped together and pulled carts with the floor space of Hummers. They stared at us idly as we scooted around them. At the village we found the men in the middle of a card game and they did not seem to want to be bothered so they brought out a young girl who spoke a little English. She was advising us to go back the way we had come when a man from the previous village showed up along with the loud lady and their child. They had a boat not far from here and were going to take us onwards.
We made our way down to the boat, clambered in with the bikes and a reed mat was laid on the floor. The engine wasn't working and so with the wife working the paddle on the bow and the husband with a bamboo pole on the stern we set off down the waterway lined with bushes. I reckon the boat was about three feet wide and thirty feet long and steering was haphazard. Several times we passed and were passed by small, single handed fishing boats that were making their way home for the evening. The nearly full moon rose behind us and the sunset was fading into the waterway. Barb tucked an orchid behind her ear and I commented that this was like the Louis Vuitton print add with Angelina Jolie floating down the river in Laos.
By night the boat had entered the lanes of the village. Music blasted from several houses and the young boy, standing near the bow against the night sang on full heartily. Once at the house we were ushered into a large room where a pot of tea was waiting and bundles of cigars rested against one wall. Off to one side a grandmother nursed a cigar and a cat lurked. Tea was poured and it became apparent that these were not the cigars we were looking for. They asked us to wait and so we did. In time a young girl showed up. She was in high school and spoke good English so our situation was made clear and plans were made to take us to the cigar shop and then across the lake back to our guesthouse.
Then we sat and waited for a very long time. The young boy rough housed with the cat, snacks were brought out and the grandmother took puffs of her cigar. At first the story was that they had gone to get diesel but then there was the sound of wood being sawed and the lady started bellowing at someone across the lake. we asked the girl what she was saying. She was yelling at her husband to hurry up, it's getting late and he can't be out all night. After twenty minuets of an engine starting and then failing to catch it roared to life and we were off.
We swung by the cigar shop which was reopened for us and were rewarded with handfuls of free cigars in addition to the ones we purchased. Mission accomplished we set out across the lake, navigating by the light of the moon which was now high in the sky with the lights of the distant stilt towns on our horizons. Giving wide berths to the solitary fishermen that we came across, in an hour we were back in the canal for the main town and pulling into a rickety, four plank wood dock.
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