Acrobatics at Inle Lake, Burma

Heading south towards Inle Lake at 7am down narrow canals bustling with morning activity, the dark sky overhead seemed to offer a dismal prospect of clearing up anytime in the near future. After a while however, the horizon of the dawning sky began to uncover bracing blue and yellow mirrors of light sifting through the cloud cover. On our left, above the distant banks still shrouded in mist, a few rays began to pierce through the paleness overhead and emerge resplendent on the shores underneath. Different sheets of woolly and wispy clouds were revealed, sheaths upon sheaths of different densities, patterns and shapes, so that as the sun's heat dissipated the former gray shapes each latched on to the brightening light and added new layers to a scene that was nothing short of the majestic. 

Inle Lake shrouded in mist

The water and sky were both silver mercury, the sun’s rays not yet golden but blinding white, and in the far distance tall dark shapes emerged and took shape in the clearing gloom as we suddenly realized that the lake was set in a deep valley. We could now make out in the distance triangular huts on stilts shining black, and silhouettes of fishermen with one leg balanced precariously on the end of their vessels, the other wrapped around an oar propelling the boat forwards. This is a fishing technique unique to the Inle region, where the use of legs to steer boats allows fishermen complete freedom to use their hands for other purposes, an incredible feat of balance and dexterity.

Mountain tops emerging from the clouds

Inle Lake fishing technique

We made many stops on the lake that day- to a traditional rotating 5-day market that changes location every day of the week; to a pottery making and silversmith village; and to a small hut where we stole a glace of the famous ‘giraffe women’, a minority group famed for their custom of piling up large heavy metal rings around the women’s necks causing them to become abnormally and disconcertingly elongated. We also made an impromptu stop at a monastery where the star attraction was supposed to be a bunch of jumping cats- said cats were lying piled up in a circle sleeping, with excited tourists snapping as many shots as they could of the novelty. After some inquiries I learned that the cat trainer had died, so the cats no longer jump and have not been jumping for the past 5 months- something our guide had somehow failed to tell us... As we were leaving I spotted a fat monk splayed out on his chair, pasha throne-like, with a lecherous smug grin on his face and extending his arms towards his subjects. Very monk-like behavior; all that was missing was his 37 virgins and grape-feeding slaves.

Boat unloading the day's market goods

Typical stilted house 

For sunset, our captain found refuge from the strong lake currents in a patch of floating foliage. A young fisher boy passed by, coming closer and closer and then all of a sudden giving us a complete demonstration of the local fishing technique. This involves a conical open-ended device that is used to trap the fish, who then swim up to the narrow end of the contraption (this works because the entire lake is rarely more than 5m in depth) where the fisherman ropes in and captures the catch. The boy sneakily tricked us into thinking he had captured a fish right in front of our eyes whereas instead he had deftly slipped a past conquest from his boat back into the net, but, no matter- well played.

Sunset fishing

Demonstration...

And the 'catch'

(Getting to Inle Lake: Most travelers decide to stay in the town of Nyaung Shwe as their main base for exploring the Inle region. Located north of the main body of the lake and less than an hour by boat, it hosts many options for hostels and restaurants. On the lake itself, most of the hotels tend to be government owned - not recommended - and also quite expensive. There are flights to nearby Heho airport, however we took the beautiful eight hour bus ride from Nyaung-U which was worth every minute of the trip).

In photos: Inle Lake

Floating gardens

Great Balls of Fire, Taunggyi

Up in the northeastern mountains of Burma a strange and wonderful scene unfolds during the week leading up to November's full moon. Part music festival, part theme park for adults, circus freak-show with a dabble of Coachella flourishes, Boston's 94.5FM and third-world disorganisation thrown in, this fire-balloon festival turned out to be so, so much more than just a balloon party.

Psychadelic circus

We were immediately lured by pounding  music to the Grand Royal Whisky arena. The three foreigners instantly acquired VIP status; festival news agencies flashed their bulbs and encouraged us to pose with costumed super heroes on the podium, shot after shot with Spiderman, Mr Mime, and the Power Rangers. It was completely absurd.

I will attempt to do justice to the character that stood in front of us- a drawn-faced, lithely and muscular Asian man in full karate gear, with a long glossy braid and intense expression emanating from his beady eyes. It's important to add that prior to his show, on the main screen was aired a video on human trafficking which would have been sombre in nature had it not been for the blaring electronic and hip-hop soundtrack and completely drunk Burmese locals - mostly men, myself being one of the rare females - jumping about for joy, knocking each other over in pure ecstasy and screaming at the top of their voices as if electro was the best thing since sliced bread.

Fiesta Loca

Right after this emotional video, Mr. Ninja brings out a half naked six year-old girl on stage, blindfolds her, lays her down, and proceeds to slice bananas and cucumbers off her naked chest, neck and head with his sword. The irony of the situation seemed to be lost on everyone but ourselves. Judging by the wild cheers, apparently this was an astounding feat that the jubilant crowd couldn't get enough of. Before one slicing-chop-sequence, he turned his back to the audience and for a good 30 seconds swirled his shoulderblade muscles to the crowd, spinning them about in circles, grunting and clenching his teeth with a constipated expression... The man was evidently in love with himself. His final feat was perhaps the most comic of all- he took a thin pole and used his robust chest to push it through a 'hard' piece of wood, in most likelihood a soggy palm tree. With his back to the audience he flexed, howled, grunted and moaned as he miraculously pushed the stick through to the other side, and then turned towards his aide for a few seconds as if she were tending to his wounds. He then spun around, emitted another neanderthal guttural cry, attendants with microphone at the ready, and displayed the fresh blood (ahem) dripping down his chest. The crowd went mad.

Chopping a banana off a girl's head. Casual.

Before the night's balloon performance had gotten into full swing however, the child inside of me was drawn irrevocably to the amusement park. First I boarded the pirate ship ride, which was powered not as much by mechanics as it was by the fashionably attired Gangnam-style aides who would swing it from side to side and then leap on it themselves when it was at full speed. Next up was the spinning blur of the ferris wheel, spiralling at a rate that must have been dangerous for its creaky knobs and ancient machinery; its attendants started the ride by ascending the horizontal slats like prowling monkeys, slinking up seamlessly in one smooth line, and then hanging on to the top compartments to get the initial forward momentum going (inside one of these, a Chinese woman looked extremely apprehensive about all the extra weight being added on to her already unreliable carriage). There were also dart challenges, larger-than-life teddy bears hanging macabrely by their necks, gambling games, a plethora of food stands, and much more to keep you entertained for hours.

LED ferris wheel

However, it was now time to witness from start to finish my first balloon lift-off. Somehow we had luckily ended up right in the sidelines of the next balloon run and caught a glimpse of the layered square box inside which were placed multiple rows of fireworks. This large box would then be lifted and carried across to the main balloon, which in the meantime would have been inflated by ignited fire wicks; the firework box would then be mounted underneath the floating balloon. This entire process took place under extremely chaotic conditions, with a barrier of humans linked by their hands preventing the pressing crowd from closing in and everyone shouting and jostling for space and their piece of the action. Then, once the balloon was deemed ready for take-off, a runway would be cleared on the hill and the men would sprint down with the balloon and send it up into the air, lighting the firework fuse at the very last minute. The joyous hordes below (numbering in the hundreds of thousands) would cheer in pure delight at a plan well executed.

Uncovering the firework box

Lifting the balloon...

Attaching the box...

Aaaand its off!!

For the next balloon, we really got to see the process up close as we managed to befriend one of the human tape attendants; I was now one of the twenty or so people holding up the edges of the tarp. Suddenly, we found ourselves right in the thick of the action, and it was apparent even to an inexperienced onlooker such as myself that this particular balloon was a lot more frantically and hazardously organized than the previous ones (a conclusion not unaffected by the fact that many of the men who had been tribally dancing in the clanging stampede were now the ones firing up the balloon).

 The balloon we helped to hoist into the air

Almost there, but...

The inevitable happened. The precarious conception of this unfortunate balloon, coupled with its birth defect of a torn right side and overanxious midwives, led to its untimely demise. The fireworks, probably already miscalculated before having been attached, took off the moment the balloon had begun lifting off the ground. To anyone who has not been in this situation, let me tell you that when a hundred fireworks destined for an empty sky take off around seven meters in front of you, its terrifying. It was fight or flight and I ran away as if my life depended on it, whilst scattering shards of fire landed all around me; I jumped behind a crowd of people who were already lying low on the ground, leaping over them into that dropping roll you learned once in a high-school fire drill, and looked back at the scene unfolding across the dirt plain.

Up in flames

Burning away

The balloon had somehow continued on its shaky burning path and had suddenly burst into massive flames. It began tumbling down, straight behind the generals' tent where we had been standing not an hour before, and fell onto the unfortunate shack of a local restaurant. Firetrucks and ambulances zoomed to the scene as the carcass, a bare skeleton of what could have been a noble soaring balloon, cindered away, its flames pirouetting in a dying dance. And then, of course, ten minutes later the next balloon was on its way. So is the way in Burma.

Et ça continue.

In photos: Hsipaw, Burma



A monk strolling down a country lane



The Temples of Bagan

Sepia sunset

Ten centuries ago, a vast empty plain in the deep interior of Burma was transformed into a building frenzy of over 10,000 Buddhist temples, pagodas and monasteries. Today, over 2000 of the original structures still remain, a standing testament to the sweeping power and grandeur of the ancient Pagan kingdom.

Busy Myanma Airways flight

The Bagan plateau

Our trip over from Yangon had been a bit stressful; right before boarding our flight to Nyang-U (the main travel hub for the Bagan temples), I happened to read in my two guide books that the airline we were about to take had "worrying statistics and maintenance", and both "strongly" advised against taking flight with this shady service... Needless to say, neither did it help that there were only seven people on board our entire plane. However, despite the risk of motor failure and impending doom, we made it safe and sound with rugged aerial views of the Bagan plateau and dried up leaf-veins of river beds splitting through the countryside. 

Heading out from Nyaung U towards Old Bagan in a rickety pickup trick, I was thrust right into the depths of the crowded van onto a minuscule wooden stool was not adapted for any normally shaped human being. Old women peered in at me curiously and an adorable baby gurgled on its mother's lap, thanakha smeared all over its perplexed face, staring at me with a slightly gormless expression. Then came the inevitable - smiles, questions, smiles, the Burmese trait of opening conversation just for the sake of it, fascinated to know more about the outside world. My friend was lucky and was allowed to ride on top of the van, the upper 'deck' being reserved for men (in Burmese culture, it is considered disrespectful for a woman to physically place herself above a man; I wonder if that's applicable in all situations).

Fitting right in

Sunrise balloons

There is one particular view of that day that has stuck in my mind- our ascent up the Shwe San Daw temple, built in the dry fields south of the Old Bagan walls. From this vantage point, for the first time I truly understood the sheer scale of what was around us; crumbling temples rising for miles, different colors, spires, sizes, shapes, styles, the variety and profundity simply mind boggling, never further than four hundred metres apart. A few temples resembled Gothic mansions, some had a more traditional paya form, bulbous stupas with bell-like domes, others were squared and chunky Mayan pyramids. From up here one could see for miles, up till the river bed of the beige Aywerdaddy River to the distant undulating mountain heads; the afternoon sun was basking everything in a golden glow- glowing terracotta bricks and emerald forests. It wasn't earthly. It was a fairytale land.

Monks looking out from the Shwesandaw temple

Zoom lens from the temple top

Glorious gold pagodas

Temple walls

A dilapidated monastery for sunset watchers

The next day after a pathetic morning spent on the most useless bikes I have ever ridden in my life, getting stuck in the middle of sand banks and crossing thorny scorching fields on foot, we took a lunch break between the temples. A middle-aged woman had animatedly ushered us to her 'restaurant' and later offered to show us her grandmother's house in the local village. The towns were very threadbare; building materials seemed to be only bamboo and woven palm leaves with dusty dirt below. I wondered apprehensively about how they bode during the monsoon season... In the house, the family painted some thanakha on my face so that I could be "More beautiful! Look at how much more beautiful!", but by far the most impressive sight was the grandmother herself. This character was a crouched and weathered old lady, the 86 years of her life etched on her rugged face, sat smoking a reefer that would have put Bob Marley to shame. 

What a grandmother...

My turn

 She showed us the contents of this massive cigar - bamboo leaves inside which was packed tobacco and palm tree bark- and then offered it to me. Understandably curious and eager, I took a puff ("Slowly, slowly!", her granddaughter cautioned); I was pleasantly surprised by how mild and smooth, and also quite sweet tasting, the cigar was. It was much more enjoyable than a cigarette and judging by the vivacity of the woman possibly healthier too. 

Sam, the buffalo farmer