To The Prettiest Dirty Lake Ever

So.  Much.  Gold.

I met them when I first arrived here in Myanmar, a trifecta of the most naturally cheerful French Canadian medical students, traveling Asia while they wait for the results of their boards and the beginning of their respective residency programs.  I love me some residents, even at home, and these three were no exception.  They were question askers and voracious learners, memorizing as much of the Myanmar language as they could to maximize their interactions with the locals, and the length to which they could use their impeccable manners.  Best of all, they loved each other well.  Singing their hearts out without accompaniment, squeezing the most they could from life with boundless energy and enthusiasm, I was tickled when we realized that our paths would intersect at Inle Lake, and quickly booked a bed in their hotel.

It didn’t take me long to realize these three hilarious humans took adventure seriously, packing as much fun as possible into our time together.  I bit my tired old tongue, and did my best to hang on tight. 

Alodaw Pauk Pagoda

We spent our first day on bicycles, pedaling through rice paddies, villages, and monasteries.  I learned a little too late that apart from nearly matching my own body weight, my bicycle was unable to keep itself in gear up any kind of elevation.  I willed my quads and my pollution-infested lungs to ante up, and tried to hide the fact that the exertion in tropical humidity made me feel like my ruby red head might blow off my body, as my adorable (younger) friends glided effortlessly ahead.  We visited temples, philosophized while watching fishermen, and even spent some time in a natural hot spring.  Which, incidentally, I do not recommend after sweating out the entirety of your body fluid.  Like curtains on a stage, the thunderclouds eventually drew the afternoon to a close, and while they raced the storm back to town, I chugged behind in the downpour, praying not to be struck by lighting, and trying not to die.  I was unconscious before 9.

Early the next morning we made our way across the street to HaHa, our boat driver for the day.  I slathered borrowed SPF 30 onto my body, having run out of my own SPF 50, and settled in.  This would later prove to be a crispy mistake.  After winding through the canal, we entered the lake and spotted a traditional fisherman, perfectly staged and perfectly posed.  We wound through floating villages, and marveled at babies sitting on the precarious bamboo somehow holding their homes steady.  The water was serenely clear, and deceptively beautiful: beneath the surface, forests and mountains and valleys floated, landscapes composed entirely of trash.  While mamas did their dishes and children took their baths, boats blew oil and families pitched trash into this water on which they lived.  We tried to wrap our brains around the 14 kilometer floating garden that provides the vegetables to the surrounding villages, and tore up some street food at a local market.  We visited several homes of floating craftsmen, families of traditional weavers, and jewelers, and tobacco rollers.  I held my breath as a man melted silver inches from my ankle, and tried not to gnaw through the banana-flavored cigarette, meticulously rolled into a tea leaf.  Our day ended at an enormous floating monastery known for training cats to jump through hoops.  Excusez-moi?  While we didn’t personally witness any feline shenanigans, there were certainly enough cats and kittens floating around to fill a bathtub.  What a world.

Pa-O Teens

Our last day together was slower, as we had all day to wait for our respective night buses.  We impulsively decided to investigate the “Traditional Myanmar Massages” for less than $7 an hour, and made our way to the hot and dusty home of a family in the center of town.  On the hardwood second floor above the crying toddlers and spitting husbands downstairs were 4 questionably clean blankets, arranged side by side.  We lay face down, and awaited our fates.  I now believe “Traditional Myanmar Massage” to mean a whole lot of no training and a free pass to squeeze and smoosh and smack the shit out of the western tourists converging on their city.  I practiced my deep breathing, knowing better than to sneak a glance in the direction of my friends: I am a notorious giggler even at the best of times.  When we finally escaped their pointy elbows and thumbs, we fled across the street to our favorite cafe to share fresh mango juice and compete for "most scandalous location of thumbprint-shaped bruise."  If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.