"Row, row, row your boat" Inle style.

A long lake high in the hills,
Fed by mountain torrents of monsoon rain
Which run dry in the cool summer.
They bring no silt to darken the water
Filtered through limestone like clear rice-wine
Making  you heady in the blue air,              
Blue against blue skies and blue hills.
I see you go from house to house,
Homes like cranes wading in the shallows ,
Visiting the infirm and the ill
In a boat rowed by the boatman with his leg,
One of the famous leg-rower breed.
May good health and fortune encircle you
Like the gulls which wheel and glide above you.
May these lake waters and the gold-encrusted
Buddha images of Hpaung-daw-u
Images which you revere
Keep you safe and secure.

"On Inle Lake"
- Win Pe.

To be continued here we come. We finished the hike with a swim before lunch, then hopped on a boat across the lake. I am going to copy from my journal for this post, as it will be easier for me.

“After lunch, we hopped in a long-tail boat and finished the journey with an hour and a half boat ride through the shallow marshes and the reed lined lake. Here I am now, in the town I arrived at yesterday, on a porch staring again at a sky ripe with clouds and a breeze sifting through my hair, now mangled from months of heat, humidity, and dust. Yesterday evening as I walked the streets here in a gentle spattering of rain, a giant rainbow formed, arching above the mountains and curving down to the valley floor while the sky was almost a Tweet yellow. I knew at that moment, as I knew in the long-tail boat gliding smoothly, as I knew with every view on the three day trek, that I am lucky, and I breathed my own soft smile that I am learning well. Thank you for it! The trek was wonderful and genuine. We passed not only ranges of Myanmar’s mountains and forests and villages, but perfectly manicured farms and gardens to give envy to California’s great vineyards. Rice and cabbage, celery and lettuce, potatoes, ginger, beans, and a dozen other plants all arranged in scenic rows that swayed up and down over rolling hills of green and brown, and a deep and dark red soil like rich Mojave brick. We met the traditional hill tribe villagers of Myanmar’s fertile hills. We watched them in their rigorous work, old and young, infants strapped in a blanket to their mothers or fathers who plowed or dug with hoes. Kids my nephews’ ages worked alongside whole families joining in the days’ labors. One family we met at evening, the men all celebrating with cigars and a happy smile, thankful for the day’s down pour to feed their fields. We met many along the trail, saw no one but hill tribe villagers, dark skinned and rotting teeth, strong toned bodies, and an admirable resilience. This was authentic life, not staged as some treks, no tourists, no souvenir shops, no begging or selling, only shy workers hard at their labor thinking westerners must have no mountains, no trees, no farms like theirs for us to come so far just to see their countryside, and countryside it is. It is nature, and I loved it. It is tradition and custom. It is the fertility of earth yielding life and survival. It is an unbending will. It is knowing no other way. It is sincerity, and harshness, and reality. I love those mountains, the ones that surround me now in the distance that only yesterday I was on top of, journeying across and through canyons and ravines and over rich farmland where hill tribes mended and tended and cattle and water buffalo grazed and labored. I loved the colors of the hills, of the soil, of the checkered scarves and head gear, of the skin, the clouds, the flowers and farms. I loved learning of and tasting the herbs growing wild in the hills, the smell of lemon grass and ginger, and the taste of wild plums. Sometimes I am shockingly aware that some of life’s moments are wonderfully simple and sublime. Thank you for it!

…Most of my time (at Inle Lake) I spent relaxing, reading, meandering all about the small town, and watching the World Cup football matches at tea shops, with locals in their homes, or with the family that owns the guest house I stayed in…One guy invited a few of us foreigners into his home to watch the game with him. We crowded onto the plank floor of the dark and simple living room and cheered.

One day a few of us hired a long-tail boat driver and spent the day cruising around on the lake. The canals are a filthy and muddy brown, but the heart of the lake is clean and resembling much of what a mountain lake should be, sans beaches. Yes, no beaches, no sand, just reeds and grasses that delve from swampy marsh to solid soil. The lake grasses are so thick in areas that with little encouragement floating islands rove about and locals wade or paddle out to tend their floating gardens thick with tomatoes, peppers, and such that line the banks and small channels in forests of fresh greenery.

The best site on the lake was the lake itself, surrounded by mountains and teeming with the life and activity of local peoples. The Intha people, indigenous to the lake area, stand at the back tip of the boat balancing on one leg while the other leg wraps around a wooden oar and paddles in wide sweeps. The flowered lilies of purple carpet and manicured gardens accent the sloping green of mountains and changing colors of the sky. It is a beautiful lake, and I am glad to have seen it.”

"The Royal Kason."

As the hot season-
Revolts against the cold
In the pattern of contrast-
The firmament becomes cloudy
And it is hot again.
It is summer.

Leaves on trees turn yellow,
To fall-to show new leaves-
Stems twist or break, yet
Sprouts on tama trees
Are now soft greens like parrot eggs.

While in summer trees thirst
In foothills thazin flowers
Are climbing thabye trees
Effusing fragrance
Mixing with the wafting air.

At sunset crow-pheasants are cooing,
And from afar come the cuckoo's notes.
Now and again, thunder is beating
Through heaven's expanses
Like lambara and deindi drums.

And I...
Oh, I think
Of the pouring of water
On the Bodhi tree
And of the absent companion
In the Golden Palace of Victory,
And I am mournful.

-U Kyaw (A famous Burmese poet.)