Myanmar - One Crazy Long Cycle

The welcome bestowed upon us on arrival at the Viewpoint Lodge was never to be forgotten. In fact, I returned to the hotel, with my dear friend Jenni, a year later to savour the luxury of it all once more. The doorman reached out for our bags, ushering us to huge comfortable wing-back chairs. Chilled facecloths were presented to us in beautifully carved wooden containers. The lemongrass perfume wafted over our cheeks, following the contours of our necks. Before us, on the elegant Burmese teak coffee table, two trays awaited. Each one holding the perfect cup of strong coffee and the most delicate bowl of chocolate mousse. Considering it was just after dawn, this unique gesture of kindness seemed perfect as it gently caressed us with luxurious bliss. 

The hotel itself was a treasure to behold. During my visit with Debbie, the chalets, set upon the water amongst lilies and reeds, were of a rich, burnt orange colour. The deep earthy tones blended well with the natural surroundings. We sipped our tea on the balcony above the water, whilst watching the gardeners balancing precariously on their narrow wooden boats, lovingly tending to their floating gardens. The following year when there with Jenni, I stared in utter disbelief at the change of colour in which each lovely chalet had been swathed. They certainly were more powerful in appearance. Resembling a packet of licorice all-sorts which had tumbled out amongst the greenery. To be honest, I was saddened at the sight. Something that had once been so beautifully captured had been replaced by a blast of flamboyance.

I should have known better when Debbie suggested we go for a short cycle around Nyaung Shwe, a sleepy town nestled on the northern end of Inle Lake, in the heart of Myanmar. Although she and I share the same interests and love of adventure, we have very different levels of physical fitness. We had enjoyed a hearty breakfast and the excitement, which exploring new horizons brings, was quite tangible. After securing two bikes for the day, we headed slowly down the main road. Every corner presented its own interpretations of life. The streets were quiet. However, an abundance of parked scooters filled every available space. Providing evidence of life. We later discovered that it was breakfast time and eating places were bustling.

The pale green buildings suggested that at one time there had been a certain amount of wealth. Their balconies provided platforms on which laundry hung out to dry. On which old men sat in rickety chairs. And pot plants struggled for survival. Below on the street level, mint green shutters provided sanctuary from the heat for cheap cafes and internet hotspots. A deep red colour, as is popular throughout Asia, created a richness and character to many buildings. 

Mingalar Market houses the many stalls one finds in most Southeast Asian countries. An array of bold posters, each one promoting the bargain of the day, screamed at us as we gingerly made our way into the market. The usual patchwork of humans, animals and products engulfed us. The smells and colours played havoc with our senses. A young child played amongst his mother’s fabrics. Unaware of the selection of deadly sharp knives and machetes lying nearby. Next door, an elegant woman sat on her haunches, preparing tea. She somehow exuded dignity and pride in her small task. Reminding me that with everything we do, each day, grace and care should be present. I tend to look for elegance in most people and objects. It has always been an extremely important quality to me and that day, I even recognised it in the hanging baskets.

Cycling through the town was fascinating. We zig-zagged in and out of narrow streets. Sharing the road with weird and wonderful contraptions. Some more bizarre than others. They chugged along. No doubt as sturdy and powerful as the day they were invented.  We guzzled down bottled water whilst looking on in total disbelief at the condition of the pavements. There existed a grave danger of being devoured by these gaping holes should one not be concentrating when walking.

Along the banks of the river several men sat staring out at the newly painted boats below. Bright yellows, greens and blues made themselves known to the older fleet. Together they gently danced upon the waters, waiting to be filled with people, livestock and produce. We stopped to appreciate the scene. Tinges of envy waltzed through my body. I longed to acquire their skills. Those of sitting for hours on end, on a rock perhaps, seemingly doing nothing other than staring out into Life and those she holds dear. This ability may hold the key to unlock the stress we tend to grip so intensely. Perhaps too these men have developed a deeper insight into Life. Staring out across into nothingness, or into everything, for hours each day no doubt has therapeutic qualities.

Remnants of what had once been charming homes stood scattered between dusty lanes. What their dilapidated walls lacked in safety, they certainly made up for in character and intrigue. One or two seemed beyond hope. The odd movement within the houses provided evidence of life within those brittle walls and gaping wounds. No matter the condition of a house, they are always able to serve as a home to someone. Offering some degree of protection from the elements. Places in which perhaps mysteries were born and nurtured. In which lives were shared and held sacred within the worn bamboo walls.

Teams of weary workers lined the main road. Their arduous task proving to be torturous under the scorching rays of the sun. Moving past these people, their faces, arms and hands were covered in layers of tattered clothing. Attempting to protect their skin from being scalded. The heat was brutal. Even from behind makeshift masks, their smiles acknowledged our presence. That day the women breaking through chunks of solid cement using only primitive tools, stole my heart. Thereafter, using what little strength they had left, they transported broken stones in huge sacks and baskets on their bent backs. This was their daily routine. For hours on end, year after year, the ladies endure the excruciating agony of extreme, relentless physical stress. To earn a pittance no doubt.

My mom’s adventurous spirit had always guided her girls to explore the unknown. It led us to seek the mysteries lying around any given corner. The untold stories written along dirt roads and off the beaten tracks. That day, Debbie and I followed Mom’s advice. We set off, not having a clue as to where the road would lead us …

To be continued …