Part of this entry was taken from my traveling journal.
Yesterday I arrived at Heho's airport--a dismal little concrete box in the middle of nowhere. After haggling with taxi drivers, I finally settled on a 6ooo kyat ride to Shwenyaung--a transfer point for those heading to other cities. When I arrived, I was told to wait an hour for a "bus" that would transfer me 11 kilometers down the road to my destination. Dismayed and antsy, as I was dropped off on a dirt road in 90 degree heat, I began trying to explain --through gestures, Chinese, and English--that I wanted transportation to Nyaugshwe. Helpful and kind (as almost all Myanmar people are), I was directed to the bed of a pick-up truck similar to this:
If one feels his personal space is violated in China, he has not experienced Myanmar. After cramming 14 adults, 1 child, and three babies into the 5 by 6.5 foot bed, 2 adults and three children in the front, and 5 men and all of the luggage on the makeshift metal-barred overhead, we began our journey. For 500 kyat and a thirty minute ride with locals, I wouldn't do it any other way.
Young and old endure the gruelling bus ride
After arriving in Nyaushwe, I checked into May Guest house and began my itinerary. However, most travellers acknowledge that itineraries are for tour groups and the anally retentive. Or better stated by Lin Yutang in The Importance of Living, itineraries produce false and foolish travel. Nevertheless, I set out according to plan, unaware that chance would change circumstance and a non-plan would provide the greatest opportunities.
My first stop was Kan Gyi Kyaung monastary. No sooner had I begun to make my way to the first shrine, I was greeted by two men who had submitted themselves to week-long meditation. One spoke English and asked to show me around the monastery. After a brief tour of the history hall, I asked to see where the young novices live:
Ten boys live in a room. Each boy has a blanket that serves as his sleeping mat and a small place to store his personal items.
The man explained the life these boys lead:
When children (boys and girls) reach a certain age parents may encourage them to commit themselves to a monastery for Buddhist training. Many parents do this because they are unable to afford education or a decent life for their children. Other parents encourage this transition for
religious purposes. If the children agree, they join a monastery and begin training to become a monk. The children can choose to remain or leave the monastery at anytime. Although the monastery provides shelter, education, sustenance, and moral guidance for the children, the lifestyle of a novice is demanding, wearisome, and somewhat galling. The boys arise each morning at 4:30am. Each morning the boys spend thirty minutes in prayer and meditation. This is followed by a small breakfast of soup at 5am. They spend about two to three hours in the classroom studying the holy Buddhist language and teachings. After their studies they embark on their daily donation walk--they walk from door to door, shop to shop, and ask for small alms. This routine is followed by a small lunch around 11:30 am. Lunch is followed by chores and rest time. The latter part of the afternoon is spent in study, prayer, meditation, and work. Moreover, the boys must adopt and follow strict and sacred regulations: no movies, no music, no eating after 12pm, no shoes inside the monastery, no requesting extra food rations, etc. It is easy to see that this holy life is reserved for the most dedicated, patient, and understanding souls. However, in a third world nation, many children see this life as a gateway from their previous misery.
The boys were mesmerized by my book. The young man holding my book has been at this monastery for 10 years. He is one of the few that has attained the holy position of a monk.
If one feels his personal space is violated in China, he has not experienced Myanmar. After cramming 14 adults, 1 child, and three babies into the 5 by 6.5 foot bed, 2 adults and three children in the front, and 5 men and all of the luggage on the makeshift metal-barred overhead, we began our journey. For 500 kyat and a thirty minute ride with locals, I wouldn't do it any other way.
Young and old endure the gruelling bus rideMy first stop was Kan Gyi Kyaung monastary. No sooner had I begun to make my way to the first shrine, I was greeted by two men who had submitted themselves to week-long meditation. One spoke English and asked to show me around the monastery. After a brief tour of the history hall, I asked to see where the young novices live:
Ten boys live in a room. Each boy has a blanket that serves as his sleeping mat and a small place to store his personal items.
When children (boys and girls) reach a certain age parents may encourage them to commit themselves to a monastery for Buddhist training. Many parents do this because they are unable to afford education or a decent life for their children. Other parents encourage this transition for
religious purposes. If the children agree, they join a monastery and begin training to become a monk. The children can choose to remain or leave the monastery at anytime. Although the monastery provides shelter, education, sustenance, and moral guidance for the children, the lifestyle of a novice is demanding, wearisome, and somewhat galling. The boys arise each morning at 4:30am. Each morning the boys spend thirty minutes in prayer and meditation. This is followed by a small breakfast of soup at 5am. They spend about two to three hours in the classroom studying the holy Buddhist language and teachings. After their studies they embark on their daily donation walk--they walk from door to door, shop to shop, and ask for small alms. This routine is followed by a small lunch around 11:30 am. Lunch is followed by chores and rest time. The latter part of the afternoon is spent in study, prayer, meditation, and work. Moreover, the boys must adopt and follow strict and sacred regulations: no movies, no music, no eating after 12pm, no shoes inside the monastery, no requesting extra food rations, etc. It is easy to see that this holy life is reserved for the most dedicated, patient, and understanding souls. However, in a third world nation, many children see this life as a gateway from their previous misery.
The boys were mesmerized by my book. The young man holding my book has been at this monastery for 10 years. He is one of the few that has attained the holy position of a monk.
After spending my time in the monastery, I decided to forgo my ridiculous itinerary and rent a bike. If I wanted to meet people, see their homes, and understand their lives, I needed to escape to the dirt roads...the pathways that disclose the true beauty and secrets of any place: the people.My four hour bike ride was the best part of my trip. I met scores of beautiful, young faces. Little people who rarely see and interact with foreigners. Children who find immense joy in having their pictures taken and seeing the result on an LCD screen. Children who are captivated by hand sanitizer and the smell of chapstick. Children whose clothes, hands, and feet showcase poverty, but whose faces reveal kindness and love through gentle smiles. Children who have nothing in this world, and yet they pluck flowers from the roadside or gardens as a gift for a foreign stranger.
As I rode along the road, a young man called to me. We started talking. I learned he was a trekking guide...he spoke Burmese, English, Chinese, and a little French. After his nephews and nieces began to swarm around me, he invited me into his home....a small wooden house on stilts built many years ago by his father. The family's poverty did not hinder their hospitality; they presented a little cup of Chinese tea, small cookies, and candies to me. As the hour unfolded, I met the young man's mother, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, brothers-in-law, and sisters-in-law. The children played with my camera, squealing with delight as they browsed through the images on the screen. The adults attempted to teach me Burmese...my lack of Burmese linguistic skills provided them endless laughs. It was a wonderful way to end a long day. I am not talented enough to convey the people's warmth, generosity, and love.The people are an experience...an experience that makes you fall so deeply in love with humanity.
The family who invited me into their home.
Everything floats on Inle.....the houses, the people, the power lines.Nothing is as enjoyable as an early morning boat ride....watching the sun rise over the mountains that loom above the lake while your skin is gently kissed by the mixture of a chilly breeze and warm sunlight.
A different view...the prow and skyThe thing that first attracted me most to Inle Lake was Amy Tan's newest novel...the beauty of the Intha fisherman, the adventure of a boat ride, the mystery of disappearance, the excitement of ancient and unknown tribes hidden in the Burmese mountains. However, had I been more prudent and less romantic, I would have heeded the advice of others...people who comment that Inle is a gimmicky tourist trap...a place secluded from the world where women and men are trapped in poverty. Unfortunately, places seeped in natural beauty tend to blind us from the ugliness of reality (Tibet, Philippines, Thailand, China, Cambodia, India, Russia, Bulgaria, South America, etc.)--Inle is no exception. I will show you many pictures; but I want you to understand, in a nation like this, the lovely landscape, vibrant colors of longgyis, and golden monasteries should not distract foreigners from the brutalities of poverty, seclusion, and illiteracy.
An Intha Fisherman.
An Intha Fisherman.These fishermen stand on the stern of the boat with one leg and wrap the other leg around an oar. This one- legged-rowing technique helps propel the boat and aids the fishermen in fishing and locating fish and water hyacinth.
Woman weaving silk scarves in the one of the floating markets.
Inn Paw Khone.
In this small weaving compound women make traditional longgiys, scarves, bags, and shirts our of silk, cotton, and lotus.
The Myanmar people recently celebrated their new year. Here is a traditional boat and celebration.
Nann Pan Village.
This young girl is making cheroots (the Burmese cigarette/cigar). She mixes tobacco and other local ingredients and wraps the mixture in leaves. Cigarettes are very expensive, so everyone smokes cheroots.
Working on the lake
Indein: Shwe Inn Thein.
hundreds of stupas
Woman weaving silk scarves in the one of the floating markets.
Inn Paw Khone.In this small weaving compound women make traditional longgiys, scarves, bags, and shirts our of silk, cotton, and lotus.
The Myanmar people recently celebrated their new year. Here is a traditional boat and celebration.
Nann Pan Village.This young girl is making cheroots (the Burmese cigarette/cigar). She mixes tobacco and other local ingredients and wraps the mixture in leaves. Cigarettes are very expensive, so everyone smokes cheroots.
Working on the lake
Indein: Shwe Inn Thein.At the end of my long day on the lake, I rented a bicycle and enjoyed the last hours of sunlight. I'll leave you not with words, but with a picture. The intensity of these eyes convey everything I remember and feel in a way words cannot.
2 comments:
I hope you never lose your sense of adventure nor your compassion. You make me so very proud.
You also make me a little CRAZY on these solo jaunts. One day YOU'LL have a headstrong daughter and then you'll understand.
Leslie Ann, You're a world traveler. One day I believe it will enable you to be a world changer. Experiences are never meant to be left at that. They are to be the fixed impressions that catapult us towards a life of meaning and purpose.
PS Keep writing..... I read every word!
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