The lush green hillsides surround the open waters of Inle Lake, Myanmar. Scattered golden Hershey kiss-shaped Pagodas lie across a quilt of nature untouched by modernization.  The clear sky in a midday boat ride turns the water into a mirror reflecting the tedious work of each local fisherman.  

We pass by a man balanced on the end of a 20-foot canoe that had been delicately carved from a sturdy tree trunk.  All tools the locals use for survival depend on their skills as craftsmen despite any trace of technology.  The fisherman throws his hand-woven green net into the waters, waits in anticipation, and slowly retrieves an empty net. There’s more work. 

He hopes his daily labor will provide food for his family.  If he fails, his family’s health is in jeopardy.  The fisherman uses his lower body strength to maneuver the canoe.  While standing, he wraps one leg around the wooden paddle and in a steady movement shifts the colossal canoe into a different direction to seek more appetizing waters.

A few dark grey clouds creep into the open sky and refreshing raindrops sprinkle the lake.  The once-mirror images are now shadows. The locals abandon their tasks and take cover.  A rainbow, a Buddhist monk’s symbolic gift of peace from nature, appears to hovers over the villages. 

The rain continues to spit as we approach six children, three girls and three boys, standing behind their hut and clothed in unmatched tattered rags.  They giggle at my unfamiliar blonde hair and light skin.  All of us become docile before the intriguing face of a different culture. Yet, Myanmar’s peace is shaken. What appears to be the simple lifestyle of locals living under strict repressive conditions overlooks their inner discipline. 

For five days I backpacked through Myanmar in the fall of 2006.  The things I saw troubled and inspired me.  Until 1989 the country was known as Burma, but due to military government junta, Myanmar is now in a smothering state of repression. 

My boat operator moves our boat stealthily into a nearby village setting upon the water.  The bamboo huts supported by large wooden stilts and covered in thatched roofs begin to reveal yellow faces peeking through the windows.  I share a quick smile with a woman breast-feeding her infant next to a rickety pig pin on her back porch.

The rain continues to spit as we approach six children, three girls and three boys, standing behind their hut and clothed in unmatched tattered rags.  They giggle at my unfamiliar blonde hair and light skin. All of us become docile before the intriguing face of a different culture.

One girl, full of excitement, graciously places an umbrella in my hands and mumbles something in Burmese. 

My guide laughs and pushes our boat away from their smiling faces.  They slowly disappear as we turn the corner, but the reality of their fate does not.  Their futures are heavily influenced by commercial or domestic labor that could begin before they reach their seventh birthday.   

As we make our way back to land, the sun is setting through the clouds. The deep orange tucks itself restlessly into the green blanket draped across the mountains.  At my hostel I anticipate getting a quick game of chin lum in before dinner.  The game involves any number of people, a cantaloupe-sized wicker ball, and some knowledge of juggling a soccer ball or hacky sack.  

I grab my ball from the room and head outside to gather a group to play.  Five men and Libby, my fellow traveler from North Carolina, become my opponents this evening.  For an hour we stand in a circle kicking and passing the wicker bundle to each other.  They laugh and encourage Libby and me.  The petite men grin, revealing crooked red teeth stained by betel chewing, and say "good, good" every time we mess up.  

Betel chewing is very common in Southeast Asia.  A quid made of areca palm nut is wrapped inside a leaf of betel pepper vine and slathered in moist lime.  The taste resembles soap, and the feeling is similar to a light-headed buzz.
Tonight, I will enjoy the last supper in Inle Lake at an outside diner, The Golden Kite, down the road. 

Libby and I share sticky white rice complemented by a pineapple curry chicken concoction. The dish fills the stale air with a sweet oriental aroma. I finish off my Myanmar Premium Quality lager beer and head down the dusty unpaved road back to the hostel.  For dessert I enjoy walking through the damp mist and nibbling on a bundle of steamed white rice wrapped in banana leaves.  It is a combination that tastes like banana bread.

Libby and I stroll as slowly as possible trying to stop time.  The few days of travel are cut too short, because we have an agenda.  Tomorrow we return to Yangon, Myanmar, where we ported.   We have a Semester at Sea vessel awaiting our return, and carrying us to India.

The following morning we hop onto bicycles and pedal around the village before departing.  I try to soak everything in one last time, but time has robbed me of a chance to gain more knowledge from the hospitable locals, who allow me to venture into their modest villages, cover me with protection from the rain, cheer for my less than mediocre gaming skills, and eagerly share their daily life.