Myanmar Memories & Vignettes — Roaming with Roth

APRIL, 2017

1: The Market near Inle Lake...

Our guide brought us to a peninsula market where only locals went to conduct their daily rituals. Local marketplaces are more than shopping hubs for food and household supplies. They are meeting places to enjoy friends, gossip, drink coffee, eat freshly fried dough balls filled with potatoes and onions, have a cigarette, finish with a second cup of strong coffee and all while chatting away the morning hours. There is no particular order, organization or logic to the layout in these markets. Its as if some family member from ancient times laid claim to a particular plot of land which has been passed on for generations. In some other, more formal, larger city marketplaces there was the appearance of a greater, overriding sense to the stalls. Kitchen appliances (for example) was a 'section' where multiple stalls were dedicated and demarcated, so if you don't find your item in one place there are twenty others where you can likely find what you need. But here in Inle, the kitchen accessories plot can be next to an area where a fish stall sells its daily catch, or where ladies are Getting their hair dyed. A surprising and delightful incongruity.

In the midst of this confusion [to this untutored browser] was a "barber shop". A single chair practictioner who knew every one of his customers. A man dedicated to the art of hair care and grooming, cutting and trimming on a dirt plot with an old swivel chair. We were about to leave the market, but noticing this unique opportunity I asked if I could get a haircut. We decided to stay and wait, and since there were three men ahead of me, continued our tour of the market for about fifteen minutes before we returned.

It had been over 6 weeks since my last haircut. Over the months we've been traveling, Adele and I have had four haircuts - Costa Rica, Bangkok; Myanmar; and Dubrovnik. I didn't realize how the cost of a haircut could follow the general health of a country's economy. But, is also telling in other ways. By means of comparison, (and with the assurance that the actual 'haircuts' received were all of generally similar and high quality) I pay $35.00 for a haircut in Carrboro. I sit uncomfortably on a window shelf waiting to be taken and no services are provided other than the haircut.

In Costa Rica, we found a hair cutting place in an upscale shopping mall. This was a 'one-man shop', a disgruntled Brit expatriate who was nonetheless entertaining and endlessly loquacious. He chatted away about why his wife left him, how Playa Tamarindo has changed, the increase in robberies and home theft in CR, and, why he really should close up shop and move on. He was a nice guy who had a 'captured' audience allowing him to vent at will. The store front was unkempt, but the man had been cutting hair for years and was quite competent. He did a good job with a 'buzzer' and charged $20.00.

In Bangkok, we found a real 'salon' that came recommended on some website review. Adele and I sat in comfortable chairs and were "attended to" by lovely young ladies, assistants and apprentices to the 'lady of the house' who owned the salon and cut our hair. By "attended to" I mean served coffee or tea with little cookies [It was so 'freakin' hot out that we asked for and got mint lemonades that were delicious]; had our hair washed along with a scalp and back massage; and, had our clothing brushed before exiting with cordial goodbyes (as if we had known them for years) and chocolate bonbons. (They were generously tipped) That haircut cost $16.00.

So, I am now prepared to ask you what you think I paid for the haircut in Inle Lake Market in Myanmar? The answer will lie below so you don't inadvertently see the answer to the quiz?

2. The Knitters of Inle Lake

A part of being 'guided', even by a personal, private individual, is having to abide the "de rigeur" recommendations to visit local manufacturing 'outlets', whether for liquor, lacquer, or lace. Many of these are strictly commercial ventures for the tourist trade. I had the practice of making it clear that unless there was some unique and special experience attached to these visits along with exceptional quality, we were not interested in going. In fact, some are actually workshops that follow best employment practices where true artisans work and create products of unusual and rare beauty. One such place we visited was a house of knitters who worked with flax and silk. [Yes, we bought a flax shawl for Adele and a scarf for me] These workers are craftspeople of the excellent, reliable quality. They sit on stools or can be found cross-legged on floors to do their work. Usually there is lively conversation amongst the workers who laugh together, eat together and work together for many hours a day.

In one part of the manufacturing floor [and I mean that literally] there is a lady working with flax. She is obviously older [we found out she is 84 years old], her hair steel gray, her skin wrinkled, and her teeth alternately missing. However, she exudes joy and contentment. Her smile, more than infectious, is warm and humorous. Her eyes are wise and at peace. Yet, it is her hands that catch my attention. Slightly crooked and likely ravaged with arthritis, she moves her hands with facility, if not grace. Her fingers are thick, strong and sturdy, yet lose none of their charm. They seem to tell a story all by themselves as if each creased and pleated depression is a memory cherished. I asked if I could photograph her hands. I did this with non-verbal pictures, holding up the phone and pointing to her hands. She was slightly befuddled, but placed her hands forward for me to photograph. I hope you sense what I did in her hands.

3. The Intha Fishermen of Inle Lake.

The facility we stayed at on Inle Lake is arrived at by boat. It is built into the shore extending out onto the lake. We had a lovely cabin with a window and deck looking out onto the lake and west facing for enchanting, picture perfect sunsets. The days were thoroughly planned and required long boat trips to our destinations. During the first day's excursion, I noticed fisherman who were, at some distance, seemingly standing on one leg while throwing nets in the water and gathering their catch. We approached to get a better view so I could take pictures. Indeed, they were [sort of] standing on one leg. It seems that the fisherman have innovated a way to paddle without hands to free themselves to accomplish all the chores they must. They wrap their legs around long paddles enabling them to row with their legs and free their hands for netting and fishing.

Because we were on our way to an appointment, we didn't have time to get close enough for me to photograph. So, the next day we made a point to head in the direction of the fishermen and get up close. As we approached them, and I began to take photos, I noticed that what I thought richly spontaneous was, in fact, a kind of posing, a balletic performance for the sake of my camera. It seems that the fishermen of Inle Lake are somewhat famous for their acrobatics and daring. After collaborating in an extended dance, the fisherman allowed me to get 'up close and personal' for these shots. I tipped them $5 each, a hefty sum that might equal a days work.

4. The hike from Kalaw to Inle Lake.

Leaving the Shan region of Myanmar, we had a scheduled two-day hike from Kalaw to Inle Lake. Descriptive literature of the trek indicated "easy to moderate", so we embarked early one morning imagining a proverbial "walk in the park". How very wrong we were. Or more accurately, how misleading was the technical description. The first days' walk was 20 kilometers (12 miles) and took us about 9 hours. We had our own "trail guide" who accompanied our personal guide, and personal cook who went in advance (by car) to prepare lunch for us at a family home where we were to meet up.

The 'trail guide' was needed because the exact location of the trails we were trekking were often subtlely situated to the point of invisibility. Upon departure, leaving civilization behind, the terrain was even with packed soil or gravel. But, very quickly our surroundings changed along with the under-footing. The paths became strewn with high grasses, fallen limbs and branches peppered the paths, and stones and rocks began to appear. Adele and I began to take care and step slowly and lightly so as not to twist our ankles or fall.

It was at this point our trail guide really began to 'tick me off'. Adele and I prepared for this by wearing our hiking boots, like Alpine climbers that we are. Our guide wore 'flip-flops' for the whole trek, and walked at a continuous pace like he was Fifth Ave. window shopping. He was so nonchalant that I wanted to strangle him. He would walk ahead, without a care, and then turn around to check up on us ensuring all was well. Then, he would turn in the direction of an outgrowth with no discernible means of traversing only to reveal an opening after a half hour's stumbling.

A highlight of the first day was coming across this farmer. I really didn't see him first. A lovely youngish woman was further in the field by the tree with two children. One was running around playing imaginary games. The other was an infant on a b… — A highlight of the first day was coming across this farmer. I really didn't see him first. A lovely youngish woman was further in the field by the tree with two children. One was running around playing imaginary games. The other was an infant on a blanket. The woman was gathering food for lunch. It was only as I expanded my range of vision did I see this man working in the direction of our path. I engaged him in conversation (of course, using our guide to translate) asking him what he grew. This region was a prime growing area for chili peppers, sugar cane and bamboo. (look at his stick) He grew chili peppers. He was 92 and still working the fields. The woman with children was his daughter-in-law. His son now ran the farm. But, you could not take the scythe away from this oldster. After a most delightful conversation, he left us with this thought: **"Live Slowly. Take care of the earth."**

We arrived at our Monastery "lodging" nearing 6 PM. I was so exhausted that the spareness of accomodations made me want to cry. This was an active Monastery which serves travelers, one 'party' an overnight, by providing a 'floor' to lie on, not unlike the upper loft in a barn, a towel and outdoor "loos". Of all the nights I wanted to be embraced by a hot bath, soothed by silk sheets, and satisfied with a delicious meal, this was the night. Our cook, did indeed, come ahead and prepare a meal that was hearty and tasty, and at the end of the day was still rice.

That evening the skies opened up and the pouring did not stop until the following morning. Did I tell you that the 'barn-like' structure had a tin roof. The piercing pitter-patter added insult, like someone prodding you with a sharp instrument inflicting psychological pain from which there was no escape. I was most theoretically enchanted with the idea of sharing an evening with dedicated Buddhist monks but quickly realized that I was stuck with my materialist cravings 'till the end of my existence.

However, the story did not end here. The Next Day, sinfully and scornfully laughed at the previous day saying, "You think yesterday was hard? Just you wait." This day, although only 6 1/2 hours in length (7.5 miles) truly tested our limits. Inle Lake is a high-altitude (2,900 feet) fresh water lake and is situated, by definition, at a declination point. These lakes are usually dug out by the movement of massive boulders and huge rocks during glacial recession. Given that, our second day was spent with over two final hours of downhill trekking over glacial remnants of large stone, sizable rocks and all on a narrow path that turned out to be a two-way highways to and from the market.

I do want you to get this. On the way down, we took one step at a time. I know. You are saying to yourselves, "what other way is there"? What I am telling you is that this was so steep and so coarse, rocky and uneven that every step needed to be taken with extreme care. Now, the "trail guide" continued his most insulting and annoying ways, still wearing his flip-flops and still climbing with a casualness that belied the risk of this walk. But then, about an hour out from our final destination, we began to see people walking up this rocky hill and with 50 kilo bags of rice or some other grain draped over their shoulders. Or, women with poles across their backs with filled pots at both ends. It was galling. The impudence of these people, to walk up and down these steep slopes like goats, stepping up 1 foot to 18" risers along a narrow, death-defying pass, and step to the side politely so we could pass comfortably as if we needed coddling. And, they do this three days a week. The nerve of them to pass us without a bead of sweat during a sweltering heat. And, the effrontery that like our guide, they all wore flip-flops. It was only after we completed the TWO-DAY hike that I read this is normally a FOUR-DAY hike and that maybe because we represented ourselves as 'hikers' they selected to do this in two days. I have to admit, that I felt a huge sense of accomplishment (as did Adele) for having won the days and at a pace that our guide commented on.

As is always the case, people were the real treat. We stopped at a kind of 'way-station' where we met these local residents who would stop, have a cigarette, a drink, chat and be on their way. We joined a group of men that had lots of questions for us...and us them. It was a laughter filled half hour that refreshed our bodies and our souls.

Coming from the marketplace.

And, the answer to the riddle, "How much did the haircut in Myanmar cost?": $1.00.