I arrived in Kalaw, a blessedly cool hilltown in the Shan hills in Myanmar and planned to spend the next day taking a day trip to the Pindaya Caves ( Giant caves filled with thousands of Buddhas) but after discovering that my options were get up at 4am or pay 40 bucks for a taxi, I decided instead to head out the next day and trek the 30 miles from Kalaw to Inle Lake. Inle Lake is a large freshwater lake in the north of Burma that is a major tourist stop - think gorgeous blue lake surrounded by mountains, small villages dotting the edges, wooden boats cutting through the clear waters and monasteries perched on the hills around.
After realizing I was getting slightly scammed the next day at breakfast, I bargained my price down and set out with two girls from Belgium ( Miet and Sophie) and one guy from Boston, Andrew.
The trek cuts across steep hillsides overlooking glittering rice paddies that snake along the valleys below. We walked on old paths kept alive by villagers making their way to the larger markets from their remote farms, their backs heavy with produce and a baby or two. These paths would suddenly arrive at dusty new road chopped onto the hillsides , crumbling with gravel and rocks that hadnt settled yet into the new shape of the hills.
Lone motorcycles passed us, their riders heads perilously turning to gawp at the foreigners making their way across little seen tea plantations and abandoned train tracks.
Rascally young monks would appear out of the forest, stealing a moment from their chanting and mischief to peer at us in astonishment.
I saw more cows than I could count - bovines of all makes, buffaloes heavy horned oxen plodding a cart and driver past us. I saw more two wheeled carts than I did cars.
The second day we descended from the hills to a dusty rolling wasteland of red earth and dry hay - I still haven't gotten the dust out of my ankles. High cliffs of mountains rose in the distance and at last by way of an ancient stream bed we made it to the pass. Pa oh villagers with their dark embroidered tunics and fiery red turbans watched us magnanimously, taking note of us with unimpressed half lidded eyes.
In the Shan Hills, more than anywhere else in the world, I would imagine daily life has remained unaltered for as long as any memory. Our presence is unimpressive to a people that have lived through so much and yet changed so little.
The third day we slowly moved downwards through the dusty hills, passing ancient Bodhi trees and making our way through dark rock pillars that dictated our path, curved albino trees growing like crowns on dark stone princes, the roots searching blindly through porous rock for dry red earth.
Emerging out of the slow agricultural fields we stood. our feet weary and our eyes full, suddenly in the middle of a tourist market. British retireees bustled around us, bargaining down and getting ripped off by hawkers and coyotes. Silver jewelery and white linen pantsuits ruled the day, out of place with our stinky dust covered backpacks and blisters.
