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Allan
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Outstanding natural beauty doesn’t begin to describe the vast blue lake rimmed by distant hazy mountains. Too big to see the far shore, the mirror like surface was dotted by fishermen’s boats and their near perfect reflections. Our hotel, we knew was on the southern tip of the lake but we didn’t appreciate it was actually in the lake. The mesmerising twenty kilometre boat trip down the lake was infinitely enhanced by a glorious sunset. Gleaming orange and golden wavelets announced our arrival at the lagoon of wooden huts on stilts where we would stay for the next few days.
Khun Htwe Nge didn’t speak much English, but he knew how to handle a boat and he definitely knew the lake and its people. It was endlessly fascinating to watch fishermen standing in light skiffs playing out a net with both hands whilst using a leg to paddle the boat with an oar. You really need to see the photographs.
Water hyacinths floated in clumps, large and small, and drifted with the wind. In other countries these caused endless frustration as they clogged up canals and waterways. Here however, Khun explained, how they were corralled into islands and used to grow crops on. An amazing range of tomatoes, beans, cauliflower and other plants were nurtured on these huge floating farms pinned to the lake bed by arrays of long bamboo poles.
Shimmering over still waters the sheen from the full moon gleamed on the huge stupa of a lakeside pagoda. Next morning Khun dropped us off at the special pagoda market for the annual Full Moon Festival. Vast ranges of fruit, vegetables and flowers were being snapped up by people preparing for the parties, hospitality and festivities to come. Everyone was bright and cheerful and we shared many jokes and laughs with the locals.
That evening vast crowds gathered excitedly to see huge homemade fabric hot air balloons in the shape of animals swept aloft by vigorous open conflagrations hung precariously below the billowing canopies. Given that the surrounding houses were mostly wood and thatch the whole event seemed to totter on the verge of disaster.
Even from our lake based sanctuary loud, joyous but discordant music drifted across the surface until the early hours of our last morning. Dawn saw us joining the early morning fishermen wearing head torches out on the lake. Saying our farewells to Khun, we drove to the town on the road to Mandalay packed with riotously colourful festival floats and marching bands. True to their loyalties some were decorated with blue Chelsea towels, others declared an allegiance to Manchester United. That maybe explains why, when we said we were from Scotland everyone beamed broadly and exclaimed, “Ah Alex Ferguson!”
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Allan
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Pictures of Yangon in Myanmar
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Magnificent Shwedagon Pagoda at Dusk
Dan light filters into the pecincts of Shwedagon Pagoda
Monks at the Shwedagon Pagoda
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Allan
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Glowing richly golden in the setting sun the gigantic cone tapering to a delicate towering spire was an awe inspiring sight. Set on a prominent hill surrounded by richly carved temples, tombs and pagodas the 100 metre tall stupa clad in pure gold and precious stones took our breath away. Serene monks drifted past worshipers kneeling in attitudes of prayer. Shwedagon is the heart and soul of Mynamar, a sacred sanctuary loved by the people of Yangon and Myanmar. In hushed respectful tones people circulated clockwise around the massive edifice.
Conversations though were easy and welcoming. A friendly monk led us to where reflections from the facets of the massive 76 carat, 15.2Kg diamond on the tip of the spire splashed red, green and orange sparkles on to the white marble courtyard far below. Volunteers who cleaned up the mountains of candle wax from the guttering devotional candles that illuminated the beautiful carvings and other decorations smiled broadly and pointed out many other fascinating features.
Deeply impressed by our experience of Shwedagon at dusk we were up before sunrise to experience dawn there and marvelled at the sheer beauty of the edifice and the warmth of the people of Myanmar. “Were we going to Inle Lake,” they asked, extoling the incredible beauty of the place. We were, put not before we had explored Yangon, the old British city of Rangoon. The colonial buildings were still very much in evidence. Some like the High Court was still in use, whist others were in decay. Deep in the heart of the city another glorious golden stupa, around which the modern traffic flowed, dominated the skyline. Monks were everywhere, on every street and around every corner. Most noticeably there were posters of the pro democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi openly on sale at bookshops and stalls all over the city. This exciting development happened only months before our arrival. Until then she was under house arrest and her photograph was not available.
This was the season for religious festivals, so we joined millions of Buddhist pilgrims going to sacred sites. Some were lovely pagodas on islands where the faithful fed rice balls to huge catfish in the chocolate brown river. In another pagoda a six metre Burmese python, the re-incarnation of a prominent monk, was venerated. His brother, now very old, was also a monk, but still in human form. “Don’t forget to see the jumping cat monastery on Inle lake”, our fellow pilgrims grinned.
The most important pilgrimage was to the incredible balancing golden rock on Mount Khaiktiyo. The journey through rural scenes and rustic villages took the whole day. On the way, the authentic spicy Myanmar food served in the roadside hostelries was excellent, much tastier than the refined offerings in Yangon hotels. At the foot of the mountain we joined the excited throng climbing into lorries to make the steep ascent. Where the air was thin and clear we began the final pilgrimage on foot to the summit. For the older, unfit or infirm teams of four lads offered lifts in chairs lashed to stout bamboo poles to cover the steep path to the holiest of holies.
There, perched precariously on the summit, was a huge boulder, clad in pure gold. Improbably the massive rock is so delicately balanced that it can actually be rocked by hand and yet it doesn’t fall. The faithful say that a hair of Buddha entombed on a small stupa on the rock explains the miracle. In the warm mauve and violet light of evening men were still pressing gold leaf onto the boulder, surrounded by monks and the good of Myanmar in dedicated and fervent prayer. Women were not allowed to approach the rock in case, Delilah like they drained it of its power.
In stark contrast to the golden glories of ancient Buddhist architecture the railway booking office back in Yangon was up a narrow muddy lane overhung by trees. Here we bought our tickets for Thazie, gateway to Inle Lake.
Dawn always smells different. The streets are deserted, the traffic desultory and the sense of adventure palpable. At four in the morning the train pulled out ten minutes early. Windows were thrown open the better to greet the day, buy food and drink from trackside vendors and dispose of rubbish. Rocked violently from side to side and thrown vertically upward when approaching bustling rural stations it was an exciting twelve hours. We talked to articulate and well educated fellow passengers like Lingthurein Aung. A civil engineering lecturer travelling back to her university. She chatted about life in modern Myanmar and gave us a bit of insight into their hopes for democracy and progress.
Well fed on local fare bought from hawkers on the train and purchased at stations through the open windows we rolled happily into Thazie after dark. It was a small town, brightened by the smile of Ko Than Loon and his pony Thar. With jingling bells Thar trotted through the streets lit by food stall lights. Ko deposited us at a basic guesthouse and promised to return at three the next morning to get our onward train to Inle. As we dressed in torchlight, jingling bells announced the arrival of Ko and Thar, as promised.
Stepping over people sleeping on platforms surrounded with bundles we clambered over rails heading for the ticket office. Here the jolly and well rounded ticket clerk happily informed us that the mountain train had “had an accident.” We assumed he meant it had broken down.
Luckily Ko was still at the station as we re-emerged into the quiet night with our rucksacks. After a bit of thought Ko said he had a friend with a car that could take us over the mountains. So Thar trotted into the deserted streets and up narrow leafy lanes. We stopped at a darkened house and Ko shouted, disturbing the deep slumber of four in the morning. An incredibly tolerant, friendly and sleepy man emerged and listened patiently to Ko’s saga, nodding slightly. It was a battered old car, with a cracked windscreen and a sleepy driver who arrived on the back of a motorbike. Within an hour we were off, stopping only at an apparently closed garage to fill up with black market petrol. Despite the cold and dust we kept the windows open to ventilate the fumes from the damaged exhaust pipe. Early morning sun drifted over the peaks onto what seemed like an unsurfaced logging road offering magnificent views on the ten hour bumpy journey to Inle Lake.
Pictures
