The bus to Inle Lake was meant to come by the main road at 7pm. I’d scoped out the road the day before and was wondering how I’m going to figure out which bus to try and hail down that was mine. As it would turn out, the girl on reception told me to wait in the guesthouses reception (“that bus is always late”) along with another guest who was also catching this bus.

So myself and an Irishman were escorted to the road by one of the staff. As we chatted and were glad to finally speak to native English speakers rather than the French (and trying to figure out why there’s so many French in Myanmar), the staff member waited with us looking for our bus, which I must say made a world of difference. Instead of standing in the dark (they don’t really have street lights here) and flailing wilding at every bus going by, he patiently watched each bus go by and eventually flagged down the Inle Lake bus at around 7:45pm.

The bus journey was a lot longer than we were told. Apparently it should arrive at Nyaung Shwe, the main town near the lake, at 7am. We eventually arrived at 11am. That included a lot of stopping, dropping people off at random locations, and picking people up and even more random locations. This was the moment when I realised the main difference between a normal overnight bus and a VIP; not only was the VIP more comfortable, they didn’t do pickups, thus making the journey much shorter.

Another interesting, or maybe disgusting is the more correct word, is the spit bags they give to all the locals (the attendant didn’t even bother to offer me one). These serve two wonderful purposes to keep you up in the night.

First it acts as a sick bag. There were a lot of people that sounded like they had motion sickness. The girl that sat next to me was okay at first, but soon she had her head rest on the back of the chair in front of her, and breathing in a balm of some sort. Yet surely enough she began reaching for the bag and retching into it.

The second purpose of the bag is for essentially spitting into. That quid so many of them enjoy to suck on builds up saliva and it needs to come out at some point. So you beginning to hear the clearing of the throat, usually multiple times, and then a great enthusiastic guttural spit into the bag.

This was basically ther turning point for me to stop catching buses. I had already been eyeing off domestic flights, mainly because all the bus destinations were in Burmese and while I was lucky to have local help prior, I had the sense that soon it would trip me up and I’d miss a connecting bus. The hucking and the spitting for 15 hours sealed my decision to start booking flights for the final few stops on this trip.

The first noticeable thing arrive in Nyaung Shwe are the foreigners. Inle Lake and Bagan are the two main tourist destinations in Myanmar, and sure enough there were tourists everywhere. English menu restaurants can be found on pretty much every single street, mostly the dominant Chinese food, but out of nowhere pasta and pancakes are served just about everywhere (why pancakes?? Not complaining, but why?). I did also find a great Nepalese place that make amazing curries and just happy to see you staff (well, not staff, pretty sure everything is family run).

In between every restaurant seems to be a travel agent, especially along the main road running through the town. They all offer the same thing, Inle Lake boat rides, balloon rides, taxi services, and bicycle hire. It would say at least 90% of the foreigners here are riding around on a bike, and honestly I’m not even sure why. The town is tiny, and as one guest at my guesthouse discovered, trying to ride around the lake is just met with a motorcade of cars on the road belching fumes into your lungs. He actually became quite sick and had to bail on me to hire a shared taxi to the fire balloon festival (more on that later).

After arriving from a 15 hour bus ride, I pretty much crashed out in my room to possibly the most comfy and huge bed I’ve ever had on any travel. When 6pm rolled around and I needed food, it was a struggle to get out of that bed. But I dragged myself out and wandered to the restaurant next door who made a pretty amazing pork and potato curry. The owner was very cool and kept asking me if it was spicy enough, which is wasn’t (this always happens, ask for medium spice and they don’t think you can take even that). So I just had to go back the next night and ask for full spicy – his face lit up – Myanmar spicy, he proclaimed! And it was spicy, and just the exactly amount I like too. Naturally it became my go-to restaurant.

The next morning I had decided to do the boat trip on Inle Lake. I had intended to go to the jetty before 9, but ended up chatted with a Englishman (the one that got sick) and a Frenchman over breakfast. When I finally made to it the jetty, it was mayhem. This was a Sunday, so there were an awful lot of locals catching the boats too, either to do a tour of the lake or simple go to the main paya, pray, and come back. Dozens and dozens of wooden boats were taking off or mooring. The traffic on the road was jam packed, mostly clogged trying to get over a small bridge spanning the river that leads to the lake.

After being asked if I wanted a boat ride more times that I can remember, I eventually came across two Dutch girls negoiating with one of the drivers. They were very focused on what they wanted – no markets, and no trade shops, just the actual sites. This was absolutely perfect, exactly what I wanted too. We joined forces, haggled for a bit, and locked in a boat.

The boat is pretty awesome. Just a simple long wooden boat, with just the three chairs in the middle for us (that had coushins!!), and the driver sat at the back with a propeller to steer. You’re flying along the water, spray from other boats going everywhere (and occassionally on me since I was at the front), and after about 20mins on the river it finally opens to Inle Lake.

Entering the lake the first noticable sight are the actual fishermen. They stand on their small canoe sized boats, one leg controlling the rudder, and casting their nets and baskets out into the water. They’ve been fishing this way for centuries, and it’s obvious they’ve grown up learning this skill since children, as there’s no way a normal person would be able to balance themselves like that. I’d be in the water before my foot even touched the side of the boat.

The first site we visted was Inthein. It’s not on the lake, we took a river off it and made a serpentine path through the marsh lands. They mention this in the Lonely Planet, and it’s true that it conjures a certain feel akin to Apolocalyse Now as they made there way down river. We stopped at a jetty and made our way on land to the paya, which is surrounded by dozens of new and ancient crumbling stupas. Sadly the lead up to the paya involved an enormous, and what felt endless, tourist souveign market, packed with foreigners pouring over expensive trinkets.

Despite asking not to get roped into visiting a trade shop, we ended up stopped at a silver smith, a weaver, the long necked weavers who put rings around their necks to enlongate them (I thought that was just an African thing), a boat builder, and finally a cigar maker. While it’s interesting to hear how these things are made, it’s that awkardness at the end when they usher you into the shop and expectantly wait for you to buy something. Which we never did.

Part of the boat ride was though the villages themselves, houses built on stilts in the lake, and instead of roads they have channels for the boats. It’s nice to see some local homes like this, without all the advertising signs and tourist traps. But sure enough, as soon as you leave that one area every other stilt structure is either a souviegner shop, a restuarant, or one of the ever growing restorts on the lake.

Our last stop was to visit the Nga Hpe Kyaung monastery. There were so many boats jostling to stop at the jetty that our driver decided to pulled up on a grass patch that had a walk way over to the main building. I was the first to cross the dodgy looking ramp, which immediantly sunk into the water as I stepped on it, and on stepped back my foot went directly into a pool of grey slick mud. The girls looked at the driver and said it ws broken, and he shook his head smiling – not broken, cross!

So slowly I crossed the ramp, letting it sink partly into the water, and shuffled my way across. Then reaching out for the girls, helping them to cross next. The rest of the walk way was just as dodgy, creaking wood that you had to not look at otherwise the gaps between the planks might put you off.  When we reached the other side, one of the girls breathed a sign of relief – I made it!

The monastery was a slight disappointment. It was previously known for it’s jumping cats, something we were all keen to see. Unfortunately this is no longer the case, the monks don’t do jumping cat shows anymore (it sounds like they were spending too much time doing this rather than actual Buddhist study), so the cats just lie about not doing a hell of a lot.

One of the stranger scenes was this one particular monk sitting on what appeared to be a prayer area. Locals would go up to him, give him money, and he seemed to so some kind of blessing. Or they’d just give him money and pray at his feet. It’s was a odd, particularly when next to him was a huge see-though box absolutely filled with cash that he kept adding to. I guess monks have to eat too (or pay for their mobile phone bills!).

The sun started to set and over the mountains the super moon rose. We sped back to Nyaung Shwe, the temperature dropping and a chill came over the lake. Pulling into the jetty, we paid for the day and I bid the Ducth girls safe travel home, as they were heading back to Yangon the next day and then home to Holland.

With one day remaining I had wanted to head over the Taunggyi for the Fire Balloon festival. The festival is to celebrate the full moon, and it lasts for a week where dozens of hot air balloons are sent into the sky carrying a paid laid of fireworks that should detonate safely away from the crowds. The Dutch girls had been the previous evening and showed me video of one balloon not quite taking off properly and the fireworks exploded over the top of the crowd below. So it’s not exactly safe, keep a good distance I guess.

It would turn out the evening I had planned to go was the final night, so prices went through the roof and it was becoming apparent it might be too much of a mission to get out there. The usual cost of a taxi to get out there, a hour ride, would normally be K20,000. I was willing to pay this for the experience, however the price had now changed just slightly. The going rate had skyrocketed to K90,000 (that’s $90 for an hour taxi ride), so the only way to do it without burning all your money was via a shared taxi.

My guesthouse started asking around if anyone was interested in a shared taxi on my behalf. Even if I couldn’t get a full taxi, the Englishman was keen to go as since for the two of us it would have costed K20,000 each (don’t try and understand the math). Unfortunately he got sick and that option fell through. After asking around the various tour guide shops, they all would do a shared taxi, however the taxi would leave Taunggyi at 1am, meaning we’d be back around 4am with the traffic. I really wasn’t interesting in spending the entire night there, I really just wanted to spend a few hours, and I was up early the next morning for a flight to Mandalay.

So I shrugged this one off. The restaurant next door has been playing live coverage of the festival every night, so I went there instead. Or rather, I spent most of the night with the ower and his family watching WWE (they were huge fans) and got treated to a free serving of chocolate pancakes.

I think I did alright.