Tying the Knot- No NOT my Knot!

We awoke on the morning of the wedding not just to the sound of the waves lapping the shore and the breeze in the palm trees overhead. We awoke to the sound of rain. I was worried for Roz and Travis what the rain would do to the carefully planned out wedding festivities planned for the afternoon. But it was early and the weather was relatively fickle out in the middle of the Belize Barrier Reef. So initially, I didn’t worry too much. Plus at that moment, I didn’t know the rain meant so much to the Enfield clan. I wouldn’t know that till much later that afternoon. 

The day stretched out before us, with the wedding at 4 in the afternoon and after a slow breakfast and some rain watching from the porch, I realized I had to clarify that indeed I had not gotten married on this trip to Belize due to a mispost on Facebook. 

David and I at the wedding - nope - not our wedding - Roz and Travis's!!

So with so much time in front of us,  David and I decided to try our hands at stand up paddle boarding, while others kayaked, snorkeled and sailed around our little oasis in the ocean. 

It became clear quickly that David and SUP were a no go and after the fourth time trying to stand up, David abandoned ship and went to the dock to find a kayak which was closer to the water and less likely to tip him into the water below us. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as nerve wracking if we hadn’t seen the result of Regan’s venture from the SUP into the coral reef early in the weekend, but regardless, we made it work with me working against the wind and current to make any progress around the island and David literally rowing circles around me. 

Ross was thrilled to see us out and being adventurous and jumped up and down on the shore to see if we wanted to join them afterwards for lunch before the wedding. The clouds were threatening, the wind high and we were hungry so shortly after I crashed into the dock and pitched myself into the water, David paddled the rest of the way around the island and we met in the bar area for lunch.  

The festivities were set to start at 4 and it was only 2 after lunch so we decided to engage in a friendly game of scrabble. To be honest, not sure why we bother since Roxanne always wins, but we played until we saw Travis and his groomsmen getting photographed on the beach in front of our bungalow and then decided to gussy ourselves up to join them. 

Everyone is so fancy!!

The wedding was like something out of a story book set at the end of the dock overlooking the horizon, now clear from the morning’s rain. 

The sun was low in the sky and the bridesmaids and the bride managed to make it all the way through the ceremony without getting their heel stuck in the dock – which most definitively would have ended with someone swimming in their formal attire and a few people diving in after them to save them. 

While I have never been called to tie the knot myself, watching Roz walk down the dock with her dad filled everyone on the pier with a sense of love and hopefulness.

 Their vows left no one there with a dry eye and I could imagine that Travis’s Dad – where ever he was – was looking down and smiling. Later during Regan’s toast to the couple we learned that during her wedding early this year, it had also rained and that she was sure that it was her father who had recently passed, giving she and Paul their blessing, just as he had that morning on Roz and Travis’ special day. 

I have never been to a true destination wedding – the closest would have been my brother and Roxanne in Tahoe three years ago. This was a magical destination – complete with a blessing of rain, diving Pelicans, tropical breezes and a sunset that took our collective breath away, leaving the 24 of us feeling like a family after just five short days together on our own little oasis out at sea. 

The day after the wedding greeted us with the worst rain we had seen to date on the island. It matched our slow moving moods after a night of dancing and celebrating. But we hoped that it would clear up in the afternoon for the snorkeling trip and island bonfire. 

All day long, it would pour and then clear. Pour down rain and then clear up. Just to show us who was boss. It rained so much that I thought about bailing on the boat trip even if they did go. Later I heard I wasn’t the only one. But boy am I glad I weathered the proverbial storm. There is no way that I would have known that I was about to skip swimming with giant marine life.

Now by now, you know that the water – the ocean water to be precise – scares me a little. I am convinced that something will sting, attack, bite or eat me. But I also love swimming. It’s a real conundrum. So when I heard that we were headed to swim with the big marine life – I wondered what that meant. Big turtles – sure I could do that? What else was big? I was about to find out. 

We climbed aboard the boat and sped off to the middle of the Belize Barrier Reef. One of the biggest and most diverse reefs in the world. And after about 15 minutes, the anchor was thrown down and we prepared to listen to Andy who would snorkel with us and give us a chat. 

“Look! Sharks!” 

We all scooted over to the side of the boat and sure enough there they were. Not just one, but a school of sharks.

“Oh hell no. I am not going in there.” 

“There not dangerous. They won’t attach humans.” Andy (or maybe Sean) assured us. 

“Do they know that?” A nervous laugh spread across the group. 

“Here you will see nurse sharks, gigantic sting rays and big sea turtles. I’ll be in the water with you so there’s nothing to worry about. If a turtle approaches you, swim backwards. If he doesn’t stop, just put the heel of your hand on his head and push him back.” 

HMMMM. Why would the turtle want to get close. Andy laughed and told us not to worry but to stick together. I was worried. Roxanne decided to watch everyone else go in first before she made a decision. David mentioned for the tenth time that day that he had never snorkeled before and around us swam the sharks and a giant blue sting ray. 

Off the back of the boat went the first of us. I can't for certain tell you who it was, but the sharks swam and they swam and it seemed like it was all ok. 

I sent a quick prayer out into the universe, donned my mask and flippers and followed the herd of people plunging into the ocean. And then there they were – the men in grey suits. 

About 6-8 feet long with the tell tale dorsal fins swimming right beside us. Andy grabbed one as it went by. He splashed around as some of the group came up to pet him. He definitely didn’t like that. I decided to keep my distance – one because I am not a big fan of petting animals, but two just in case the nurse shark didn’t know that he wasn’t supposed to bite me. 

Then the sting rays – large diamond shaped blue and gray slinking along the bottom of the ocean floor kicking up a trail of dusty sand in his wake, oblivious of the other marine life around him. A school of fish with pointy sword like noses swam around me and then there was the turtle.

 A gigantic sea turtle swimming with fish that seemed to attach themselves to his sides and bottom. The turtle came up and seemed to take a breath of air and then back underneath the water. Andy caught him as well and some of the  group got closer to pet him as well. I kept my distance and sent out a silent “I'm sorry” on behalf of the rest of us for bothering day. Ross came up behind him and touched him on the back before Rasta could tell him – never ever from behind, lest he think it a predator and attack in defense. 

The rain had retreated, the big marine life was all around and we floated and swam until it was time to go to our little tiny private island for happy hour, ceviche and our evening sing along and bonfire.

If the town of Placencia had been quaint and laid back and Hatchet Caye had been picturesque, then this place was a darn post card come to life. The whole island was about 30 feet long and ten feet wide. 

We docked on the sand and waded through the water ashore and unloaded the driftwood and coolers. The sun sunk low in the sky, large hermit crabs wandered the shore as we ate and drank and did tricks on the sand in the fading light. 

As the sun left us, the fire was lit and Ross began to play the bucket since there was no guitar and not drums. Soon Andy took the bucket and my brother played the cooler while we stood around singing terribly, thankful for the postcard place and one another. 

How I Was Almost Accused of Being a National Security Issue: Don't Mess with Myanmar

Looking back on it now, would I have done it the same way again? That’s the thing about hindsight. It gives you perspective. You know more. What’s that expression – hindsight is always 20-20? 

So yeah, if I had thought about the potential pitfalls of that decision, would I have still gotten off the plane? 

Sitting on the beach, the sun sinking low on the horizon, listening to the waves rhythmically lap the shore, it’s still hard to think of a different decision. 

But that is also a decision based on perspective,  since I know now that in the end, I will not have to languish for years without trial in a windowless cell. 

But there were moments when I did not know that. And there were a few hours when that’s exactly what seemed likely to happen. . . 

------------

“There she is.” The hotel manager pointed to me on the chaise lounge in front of the Memento Resort in Ngapali beach. I had been there less than thirty minutes and thought I was scott free, but apparently I was not out of the woods. 

I sat up and looked at the men in the KBZ airline uniforms.

 I guess it had actually mattered to them that I had gotten off the plane earlier than planned, and they had figured it out, and somehow they had also figured out where I was staying. 

“You must board the plane to Yangon!” the man in the button down shirt said. “Sir, your ticket is to Yangon, no Thandwe. The plane is waiting you.” 

I could just picture the plane still sitting there on the runway. Kristen, Kath and Marie kicking themselves for agreeing with me that I should just disembark the plane and skip the second leg of the journey. The rest of the passengers - a mixture of confusion and annoyance. 

Later they would tell me that the officials boarded the plane more than just a little annoyed when I could not be accounted for. The pilot refused to take off, the off boarded the three women and made them walk around the tarmac looking for me and then finally had them write a statement that I had taken all my luggage with me when I had disembarked from the plane. 

But going all the way to Yangon just to turn around, and take an 8 hour bus hadn’t made any sense when the plane had already landed on the coast. 

I tried to plead my case to the man. 

“It doesn’t make sense for me to go with you. I am only here till the 17th – then I’ll go back to Yangon to catch my flight home. If I go now, I have to waste all this time.” 

He shook his head solemnly. “This is security problem. You check in Yangon. You are not on plane. This is problem for government.” 

I wondered if the Burmese jails were comfortable and if my incessant need for the beach was worth the years I would spend languishing in a Burmese prison. I could just hear the defense attorney pleading my case, “You see your honor, she had been away from the coast for thirteen whole days.” 

The judge solemnly nodding his head. Or would there even be a trial. Maybe they would just throw me in the cell and throw away the key. 

“Can I see your boarding pass Sir?” He was standing over me and talking in a loud voice. “You MUST board the plane.” 

I shook my head now close to tears – willing them to stay inside my eyes. 

He wasn’t a police officer. Did I have to listen to him? I asked him to lower his voice, told him I didn’t know where it was, and tried to reason with him. How had they even found me, I wondered as I thought about Big Brother watching. 

“This is a BIG PROBLEM Sir! You must come to the airport until the plane lands Yangon safely.” He grabbed for my wrist. The other tourists craned their necks to see what was going on.

“No!” I pulled my wrist back and stood. He hadn’t said I was going back to Yangon anymore and what he was saying did seem temporary.  “I’ll go with you, but I don’t have my passport. It’s in my room.” 

My heart was pounding in my throat as I walked back to my room, pulled on my skirt and tank top and grabbed my passport. 

I left everything else in the room and followed the three men to a white van and got inside. The women inside the reception trailed outside shaking their heads solemnly. 

“Not good. Not good. Not good,” ran through my head like a mantra as we drove the seven kilometers back to the airport I had been at less than an hour ago when I had gotten off the plane bound for Yangon. No one on the plane had said anything and even when I had to give my passport to immigration before exiting the plane, it seemed like it was going to be fine. The man had requested my boarding pass, and I had just shrugged. At the time his smile as he returned my passport to me had felt reassuring.

 I should have known that it wasn’t going to be that easy since the taxi driver had asked me mid way to the hotel if I had meant to get off the plane at Ngapali. He had just put the the phone aside, and twisted in his seat, a confused look on his face. I assured him I knew where I was and he shrugged and told the person on the other end something I couldn’t understand. 

I hadn’t thought that somehow the pilot and the Burmese government would think that I was some sort of terrorist. I guess looking back, I could see what they were thinking. Passenger buys ticket to Yangon, disappears half way there and plants something on the plane. Obviously, that hadn’t occurred to me and I had to make them understand that this was just a misunderstanding. 

We arrived at the airport and I began to walk in the front door. “No sir. Please this way.” The KBZ airline representative pointed to a different door. I entered the large room – inside was one folding table, a few folding chairs and three large boxes. A clothes line hung between two columns with police shirts hung on them.

 There were three police officials, two immigration officials, a few people without uniforms (that I later found out were airport security) and three more KBZ reprentatives. “Not good, not good, so not good.” 

One of the KBZ representatives came up and began yelling at me, “A WHOLE PLANE IS WAITING YOU MAAM!” I nodded and tried to explain but he cut me off and instructed me to sit in front of the column in a folding chair. Now once again, there were men standing all around me and I was smaller, seated. 

“I think it’s all a misunderstanding.”

 I offered trying to explain that I had initially been booked by the travel agent from Heho to Ngapali only to find out the day before that the flight was full and had to go to Yangon first. “So imagine my surprise when we arrived in Ngapali. I figured it was meant to be.” I looked up but no one was smiling. 

They all began talking at once and the immigration police asked me for my passport. 

The thing about listening to a bunch of people talk about you in a foreign language is that it’s very intimidating. There they were at least eight of them or more, talking and yelling and waving my passport and a few pieces of paper around, including the signed note from Kristen, Kath and Marie, intermittently pointing at me and saying my name. I was reminded of my last run in with foreign immigration in England when k was deported twenty years ago. But that's a different story, and at least then I could understand them and they me. 

“Big security problem. My country. My Rules.” One of the officials said and I simply nodded and once again apologized profusely. Time seemed to crawl by, and I wondered if eventually they’d get bored of telling me how wrong and stupid I was and let me go, or if this was how I was going to end my time in Burma. 

 A woman came up, piece of paper in hand and began to talk to the man to my right. He sat down next to me. I recognized him as the man that had picked me up from the hotel. 

 “They are saying you must pay the difference in fare and the fuel waste costs. Heho to Yangon is a cheap fare, but to Thandwe is very expensive.” 

I felt the tears prick back up. Now they were going to extort money from me and I still didn’t even know if they were letting me go. I pictured them holding me for ransom while my father wired them money across the ocean. 

“I don’t have a lot of money! Look.” Now I was crying in earnest. I took out all the money I had left – 3000 local bills and $143 US dollars. Surely they weren’t going to take all the money I had in a town where I wasn’t sure I couldn’t even get more. 

“Don’t cry madam.” I was glad to not be a sir for a moment. He got up and walked away coming back a few minutes later with a coca cola and a straw and a bottle of water. “Please I am sorry Sir. Don’t cry.” 

At this point, I couldn’t have helped the tears, but apparently men, even Burmese men do not like to see a woman crying because now another one of them was offering to put me up for free in a hotel in town. I declined but stopped crying – if they were offering me a hotel, no matter how sleezy, then I was going to eventually be released. This was progress. Though I definitely was not accepting that offer. 

The woman with the bill came back. I braced myself. How much would they try to charge me - $500? $5,000? More? I looked at the paper and saw the number 12. “12? 12 what?” I asked the man who had given me the beverages. 

“$12 US dollars.” 

“12 dollars? That’s what you want?” I resisted the urge to start laughing and ended up crying again. 

“Please don’t cry.” I offered the woman a ten and two ones but she decided the ones were too old and took the rest of my kyat instead leaving me with no local currency at all. Then she left, seemingly satisfied. 

I looked around and the immigration police were gone too. One of the airport security handed me my passport back and asked me to write a statement of what had happened so they could submit it to immigration and also to the KBZ company’s head office. I nodded and began writing in silence. 

Now we were just three people, the man in the white t shirt that had told me he was the airport police and a man in a blue collared shirt from the airline. The airport police sat in the chair next to me and tried to make conversation. He asked to see some pictures and I showed him my father, David and Ross and some of SF hoping to garner his sympathies. He had a piece of paper and pen and wrote that he couldn’t speak English but could write a little. 

It was after 4 now and I wondered how much longer they would keep me. Surely the plane had landed in Yangon by now. I tried to ask, but the two men just talked to one another. Then the airport police man wrote on the paper that he would come to my resort at 19:00.

 I was thoroughly confused. Was this man telling me that I would be there till 7 pm? Or that he would come to see me at 7pm? Or something else entirely. Was he actually trying to hit on me? That couldn’t be what was happening. 

I asked to talk to the manager and he came in and told me that I had to stay till 7 pm until the plane returned to Heho.

“Why??” I asked my voice increasing an octave as I imagined sitting in this bare bones room for two more hours. I looked through a window into the airport. It was – for all intents and purposes – shut down. Now I was nervous. 

At first I had been scared thinking I would languish in a Burmese cell, now I realized there was a new issue. I was in a deserted airport alone with only men   telling me I couldn’t leave. 

My mantra returned to my head and I stood and walked to the door. The man who had picked me up at the hotel was standing there, his helmet on as if he had been about to go home. “Please sir. You cannot leave!” 

“Why? The plane landed. I paid the money. I have my passport. The police are gone! Why am I still here?” I screeched. 

“They will take you to your hotel madam. You must wait.” He held his hand in front of the door and put his foot to block my passage. The airport police man stood blocking the other side of the door. 

I shook my head. “I want to go now. I can walk. I can hail a cab. You have to let me go.” 

They spoke in Burmese and the airport security left and then came back. “You must wait.” 

“NO!” I said as forcefully as I could without yelling. They exchanged glances and words I couldn’t understand. 

Then I remembered. 

And began to cry. 

“Sir, please don’t cry. We are sorry Sir. We will take you now.” 

And just like that the door opened and we all walked out into the fading sunlight. I got in the van along with four other men and we left the airport and headed back in the direction of where I was staying. 

“You ok? No cry?” asked the airport security.

I nodded without speaking. 

“You have your luggage sir?” the manager in the front said and I nodded a second time. 

Back at the hotel, I thanked them for returning me grateful my room had a deadbolt on the inside. 

I had not been throw in jail. I had not been accused of being a terrorist or a security threat. I had not been held for ransom and I had not disappeared into thin air – as I have read about tourists doing from time to time near a border or after committing a crime without their knowledge. 

“Don’t mess with Burma.” I thought as I settled back down on  the chaise lounge where I had been three hours earlier. I was just in time to see the sun sink low into the horizon and disappear into the Bay of Bengal. 

-----

-------

Ngapali beach was just what I needed. Yes, first I had to lower my accelerated blood pressure and pulse from my near imprisonment scare. But once my heart rate returned to normal and I looked around, I was once again in a virtually empty coastal paradise. 

From all that I read about Ngapali, the hype was that it was a snooty resort town with only $300 a night hotels and only the highest falooting of local and foreign society in attendance. This was simply not the case from what I could gather. Sure there were plenty of schmanzy resorts for sure. But the section of the beach where Memento was stretched a good three miles from north to south and included everything from the upscale resorts, to a stretch of beach shack restaurants, to on the beach massages to a humble fishing village and modest guest houses like the one where I ended up for the three days. 

The beach was wide and the sand near the shore was packed and good for long walks and runs. The morning of the 15th, I awoke early, the sun not quite up high enough to shine through the palm trees shading the beach. I ran along the hard packed sand and greenish blue water on a deserted beach with the exception of the occasional couple walking hand in hand or a man standing by his boat, hoping for a tourist to book a day trip to snorkel or fish. 

On one of the outcropping of rocks, someone had built a mermaid sculpture and she seemed to be watching out over the sea and the beach to the north. 

After the last hotel and restaurant on the pier, I hoped over the small riverlet draining into the ocean and ran through the fishing village. The strong smell of drying fish filled my nose as I ran past thousands of buckets of fish, tarps filled with fish drying and pick ups where men and women alike worked to carry the fish from the boats on a long stick with buckets at either end and dump them into the truck bed. 

A monk walked slowly along the beach shading his head from he sun. 

A young girl played with seven stray dogs, patting each one one the head. A man argued with three women about the price of fish – all four of them waving their hands about in obvious disagreement. 

A women with a basket of fruit on her head made her way slowly down the beach toward the section of “town” where the tourists were as I ran further into the “fishing section.” 

Three small girls, their faces a yellowy white with the Tanaka powder, yelled “mingalaba” as I ran passed and I raised my hand to return their enthusiastic greeting. I reached the end of the wide sandy beach and watched as more rocks popped up between me and the water. 

Make shift houses now dotted the shore where hotels had been and low hanging trees strung with trash grew among the rocks. A woman walked with her baby in her arms. A man crouched low between the trees eating out of a bowl with his hands. 

I reached the end of the beach to where the cliff jutted up blocking my way and turned around. Two dogs lay in the sand. One picked up his head and looked at me lazily in my running clothes and then went back to sleep. 

I ran slowly back past the trash, past the fisherman, past the women carrying the tarps and the hay and the buckets of fish, back to the massages on the beach, the fancy hotels, the mermaid watching over Ngapali and my own humble place by the sea.  

Here is where I would spend my last few days in Burma. My last few moments in South East Asia. It feels like a long time since I was home. 

San Francisco feels not just physically far, but mentally far as well. Flush toilets where one won’t have to squat to use the bathroom. Water directly from the tap. Pizza instead of curry and rice. Tall buildings where shacks had been. 

And fewer smiles from strangers on the street. Fewer people squatted by the side of a dirt road, waving with a call of “Mingalaba.” 

-----

This afternoon when I checked in for my flight, the woman who had charged me the $12, smiled broadly when I saw her. I assured her I would stay on board when the plane stopped first in Sittwe. She laughed. 

As I walked away to hand my passport to register in immigration, the KBZ manager came out and called across the lobby, “Jennifer!” He was smiling and I smiled back. 

“Your plane does not go directly to Yangon.” He said, his smile fading. 

“Don’t worry.” I assured him. “I promise to stay on the plane.” 

“Please.” He replied just the slightest bit of worry in his eyes. 

“I promise. I learned my lesson,” I laughed thinking about the difference between fame and notoriety. . . 

I couldn’t be sure, but when I handed over my passport to immigration, I swear I thought that they too smirked at me as they wrote down my name. 

Finally, my plane was called to board. I grabbed my pack and walked across the airstrip to board the plane... As I began my walk up the steps, there was my "friend" from KBZ to wish me goodbye and not so discretely point me out to the cabin crew as well. 

All Things Must Come to an End: The Last Installment of Team Joy's Biking Bonanza

"How does this thing work?"


Team Joy!

Mandalay to Pindaya, Myanmar

Even though we were grateful to not have to bike right from our hotel in busy, downtown Mandalay, I am not sure any of us realized that we were were about to get in the van for over three hours to drive on windy roads into the mountains of Myanmar. 

The road wound up and up and up until the scenery changed and more people had towels wrapped up into a hat on their heads. People smiled less, the thatched houses gave way to studier substances and the air was noticeably cooler. 

We ate lunch in a little restaurant and once again relied on Chem's ordering skills to get us something vegetarian, tasty and not too heavy. After all, we were about to get back on the bikes at noon for the next 50 km. 

Biking along the roads in the Sham Region was the first day that we reached the types of roads we had had thought we would have been on the whole time. We wound through village after village, up ad down the “undulating” hills as Chem it called them. 

Kids ran to the edge of their school yards, yelling Mingalaba as we road by and mothers held their children up to wave at us. We were more on our own as we rode, each at our own pace, riding fast down the steep descents and plodding along as the road went back up, up and up. 

“Don’t be too excited when you see a downhill,” Chem reminded us at the first snack break of watermelon and sweet sesame cookies. “Where ever the road goes down, it then goes right back up.”” And he was right. 

The scenery had changed in addition to the terrain and the people. Gone were the dusty, dry  hills of Bagan and Mandalay and in their place were mountains jutting up against the horizon, a patchwork of farmland in the foregrounds. Grapes, wheat, potatoes and more now harvested and waiting for the rain to return in May. 

That night we shared a bottle of locally grown wine after we bid adieu to Pai and Chem it. We had bamboo huts to sleep in and indulged in a massage before bed to soothe our sore muscles. We wondered how our new guide would be for the last two days of biking and marveled over how fast the time had gone and how quickly we had gotten to know one another, as often happens when traveling together in a foreign land- Team Joy Sore Butt biking their way through the countryside of Myanmar. 

Pindaya to Kalaw to Inle Lake, Myanmar

I think Kath was right when she named Nyee Nyee the joker. Not just because he laughed a lot with his infectious laugh. Though that is why she had decided that was his nickname. That along with the fact that his name was hard to pronounce, and it was so similar to the driver that we couldn’t remember whose was whose and it seemed rude to ask again. Though in retrospect the joker was probably not any more appropriate. 

But really in my head he became the joker somewhere in the middle of the Kalaw to Inle Lake ride.

 He had said four hours. We knew that couldn’t be accurate since he had told us three the day before and that had taken us four and a half. But still he was the guide and so even as I added an hour for good measure, I didn’t think that he was going to be so far off that we’d arrive close to sundown. 

He had suffered greatly the day before on our trip from Pindaya to Kalaw. Initially full of joy and large guffaws of laughter with his skinny little legs and flip flops, he soon became despondent as we headed up and down hill after hill. 

Even though we stopped to see the women on the hillside digging ginger and Kath even broke out the Polaroid to give them pictures of themselves. Midway into the second hour out of four, he was slapping his cramping quads and holding on to the support vehicle as it rode slowly up the hills. 

But there was nothing that he said that could have prepared me (or us) for that last day of biking. He had said it was two and a half hours of up, followed by one and a half of down. And that this trip he had actually done once or twice before, unlike the Pindaya to Kalaw stretch, which had been his first time. 

The ride out of town while up and down and on a super trafficky road, didn’t feel much different than what he we had  been riding on the day before. Up and down, Up and down, Up and down. I had been reluctant to get on the bike in the morning. I had had enough of that particular bike, of the up and down, it was hotter than it had been the day before and I still felt a little dizzy and nauseous, as I had been for the last few days. 

But then once on the bike, I got in a groove and we cruised along the roadway till we left the traffic and headed into a smaller, quieter road. It was absolutely  breathtaking and we were thrilled that our last bit would be through such gorgeous farmland with mountains as our backdrop. We had succeeded in changing our flights – or at least they had to the following day to Yangon so we would also have two nights in Inle Lake and a full day without the bikes to see the lake and relax for the change, instead of being so programed from dawn until dusk. 

Then we hit the gravel. The thing is that he had said that some of the road would be bumpy or off road. And the company had said that 60% of the riding would be on paved and 40% would be off road – hence the mountain bikes. But looking back over the last nine days, it had been mostly paved. 

I asked Nyee Nyee how long we would be riding on this road that made my teeth vibrate and he just laughed his joker laugh. “10 minutes? An hour? Two?” 

“Noooo, not that long.” Kristen decided to use the support vehicle for the next few miles, but when the road momentarily smoothed out and Nyee Nyee assured us that it was going to be smoother she hopped back on and hoped for the best. 

We stopped to see the basket weavers. It turns out that while road construction and digging ginger from the earth is women’s work, basket weaving is men’s work. Something about education level and status. 

I kept thinking about all the times I have jokingly heard about basket weaving as a course of study and wondered if anyone who made those jokes (including yours truly) has every seen the kind of work that goes into making a basket from palm fronds by hand. 

One guy was chopping down the trees, another pulling long strips of bamboo from them, two more were slicing the strips into even pieces and then there were two men creating the baskets, weaving them into large containers stable enough to carry all the ginger we had seen, the potatoes and whatever else needed transporting. All by hand. 

Kath had her polaroid handy and both the boys, the men and the local kids and mom from the village enjoyed the photos she took and gave them, laughing as they saw the piece of paper spit out from the camera revealing their serious faces. 

These kind, smiley people who seemed to be laughing all the time, always took photos without a smile to be found. 

We got back on on the bikes and Nyee Nyee told us that we had just about another hour or so. We didn’t realize that meant an hour or so of uphill on the rocky road followed by at least an hour or two of some of the steepest, rockiest mountain biking riding I have ever done. I think I have mentioned before my fear of anything fast. Mountain biking is among those fears. 

But in the end, we had to get from the top to the jetty where we would take our boat along Inle Lake to Nyaung Shwe. And so without anyone to really complain to, I looked Mr. Fear right between the eyes and silently screamed, “Come on – let’s see what you got.” And then I just took off. 

It was like I had become some other version of myself, barely touching the brakes, catching air on the bumps, finding the best path on the wide fire road. Down, down, down we flew along the roads until every part of me felt like it was cramping and vibrating. And then just when I thought I couldn’t take an other second of downhill on this unpaved road, Nyee Nyee flew past me and made a right, onto a paved surface. 

(This is obviously not the gravel section- it is not pictured due to obvious safety reasons)

I cheered. I mean not just in my head, but aloud. “WOOO HOO!” And I could hear Kristen doing the same thing as she made the same right – “Paved roads!!!!” We were ecstatic. 

And then just like that – the bike trip was over. Ten days of togetherness. Ten days of getting on the bike not knowing what to expect and riding and riding and riding. Ten days of seeing new places and eating new foods and having new experiences, and poof, we got off the bikes and it was over. 

It was funny to think back to the flight from Yangon to Bagan where I had contemplated jumping ship – I wasn’t sure about the tour – the having to go where people told me when they told me, the fanciness of the hotel – all of it. And now it was about to be over. 

Nyee Nyee was his old jovial self as he led us through the town to the jetty and onto the long boat with the four wooden chairs all in a row. We had gone from bikes to boats for the last few days. Nyee Nyee as it turned out was not so much of a biker – and he for one was happy about that, back to being the joker. 

Inle Lake, Myanmar

The fisherman stands poised on the edge of the long canoe, balancing on his right leg, as he dips the oar attached to his left leg deep into the dark blue water and pulls in to backward along the canoe. He holds the basket net above his head and as we snap a picture, he leans forward, as if to say, “Aren’t I talented? Don’t forget to tag me on facebook!” We laugh and wave and continue puttering along Inle Lake in our Long Tailed Canoe with the wooden chairs all lined up in a row. 

We are grateful to be off the bikes on this second to last day as a group, enjoying the cool morning air and the sun shining down on us. 

Inle Lake has to be one of the strangest places I have ever been with more than 800 villages and 300,000 villagers living in floating villages on stilts in the water. Instead of roads, there are waterways; instead of cars there are boats. Tomato plants grow in floating gardens, women wash clothes in the water off their docks. 

A floating sliver shop serves to melt down the rocks from it’s aluminum, copper, silver blend until it’s 98% silver and formed into bracelets or earrings – ready to sell in US dollars for a pretty penny to the visiting tourists. 

It is by far the most touristy place we have been with the exception of maybe Bagan. The tourists ride through the inlets and lake in boats with chairs all in a row. Four, five and even eight people sitting in a row. 

The locals sit on the boat floor along with burlap sacks of goods or grass to be used to make an island or just up to 20 people all huddled in the middle of the boat waving to us as we pass one another. 

Nyee Nyee grew up on the eastern banks of the lake and tells us that each village as its own primary school, pagodas and hospital but that only the bigger lake villages have high schools or monasteries, and that each village has a special skill. 

There are some that make and sell lotus and silk weavings, women painstakingly pulling out the small strings out of each lotus branch until it is thick enough to become thread to use in a loom. 

Some villages make silver products and each grow food and send out their men to fish for grouper and other marine life that taste good fried and in curries. 

As we putter around adding to the noise pollution on the water’s surface, we can’t help but wonder what it was like before the motors came along.

 How peaceful it must have been to sway along in your house along the water’s edge, lake grass just under the surface, a game of volleyball with the bamboo ball, clothes drying on the line, women taking their baths at the water's edge, the only sounds – the egrets and the seagulls and the sound of the fisherman, rowing with their feet.