Inlay Lake

Well, I can’t say much about the lake, because the last couple of days are a complete blur in my memory…and in my memory, all I can think is I hate Inlay Lake… So if you want to know whether or not Inlay Lake is a nice place to visit, don’t read this.  I’m biased towards hating it with all the guts that are left in me.

I arrived in Nyaung Shwe at 5 in the morning, and set out to find a guesthouse.  I had taken an overnight bus from Hsipaw, and the 11-hour ride was tiring.  I was sitting next to a smelly, middle aged  overweight man, who had no sense of personal boundaries.  He sat spread-eagle, no doubt airing out whatever hell was heating up between his legs.  This meant that his leg was ALWAYS sweating on mine, no matter how obviously uncomfortable I shifted to the wall of the bus.  I eventually figured out that if I put my computer between us on the seat, he would keep his legs on his side of the chairs.  The ride was uncomfortable, to say the least.  The smells he was exuding, from his armpits and his mouth (constantly chewing Paan and spitting it into a bag that he hung from the seat in front of him), made it impossible for me to sleep.  So I didn’t.  But my friend next to me eventually collapsed on my shoulder, drooling and snoring loudly directly into my ear.

Right.  So I arrived early in the morning, and wandered around the streets trying to find a guesthouse.  I found out when I arrived in this stupid town that there is a balloon festival taking place in the next couple of days, so my chances of finding lodging were slim to none.  I didn’t know that until I got there, otherwise I would not have gone to the area at all.  I am not a huge fan of hoardes of rude tourists, and that’s exactly what I found in Nyaung Shwe.

As I was wandering around in the dark morning, I saw 6 other foreigners, all jammed into a little closet-like-shop called Sons of Inlay.  It seemed to be a travel agency of sorts.  So I went in.  They were booking a boat for the day, to go around Inlay.  They also did not have accommodation for the evening, but they were going to go out on the water and figure out sleeping when they got back.  So I jumped in on their plans.

Four Germans (two girls, and two boys), a Swedish guy, and a Scottish guy made up the new crew of friends.  So we went out on Inlay Lake. It was pretty for the first bit, but soon turned to a silly tour of tourist traps. But if you ignored that and just looked at the lake, I guess it was pretty.

But soon, things started taking a turn for the worse.  It was just as we were coming back from the floating gardens and villages that I started feeling like crap.  The boat ride really sucked, anyways. Soon, we all agreed to come back early.

Perhaps it was the “avocado salad” (which we call “guacamole” in the US, and which looked exactly the same going in my mouth as it did coming out later). Or maybe it was the noodles that I ate for breakfast in the market.  Either way, we got back to the travel agency, and I laid down on the bench.  I was debating taking a bus to Yangon in an hour with the Swede and Scot, and it’s a very good thing I decided not to buy that ticket.  Only a half hour after arriving back in town, I found myself running to the back of the shop, where there was a little privy, and essentially taking up residence there.  I was hurling my guts out, onto a snail colony that was feeding on some rotten tomatoes.  (It’s interesting the details you notice about your environment when you’re hyperfocused on one spot that you keep looking at with dread.)  Between vom sessions, I was in the privy, feeling terrible.  It wasn’t pretty.  I was on my hands and knees, spewing everywhere, while Isaac the beautiful Swedish guy rubbed my back and got me water and rehyrdation packets.  He went back and told the Germans to take my stuff to the monastery, and arranged for a bicycle to take me there later.  Then, he was gone–off to Yangon.  I was alone, practically laying in my vomit  shivering, and sweating on the dirt outside the toilet.  I had no energy to pick myself up off the dirt, so I just laid there.  It was horrifying.  I don’t know how long I was lying there, but the owner of the shop came around back and helped me walk back into the shop.  He told me I would get AIDS from lying there.  I didn’t have energy to explain to him that that was impossible.  He laid me down in the corner, put blankets over me, and mixed me some water and electrolyte powder.   I passed out, completely drained from hours of vomiting and other liquids passing through my body.  I didn’t have energy to swat the flies off my face or body.  I was pale and shivering.

I woke up hours later, to the urges reemerging in my throat.  I ran out of the building, and collapsed on the ground outside, heaving, even though my stomach was entirely empty.  It was quite the spectacle, I imagine.  People were gathering around to watch the foreigner crawl around in her own puke.  I burst into tears, I imagine from lonliness and desparation.  I cracked.  I gave up.  I was alone, and my body was in a terrible state.  I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go HOME.  I kept picturing my little apartment in Centerville, where I had food poisoning early this year.  Meren took care of me. I had a bed, and a toilet, and blankets, and a climate controlled room, and the comfort of being home, and safe.  But instead, I had left comfortable Hsipaw, where I had met tons of friends, and I had a room to sleep in, and come to this tourist-trap town where I was planning to sleep on the streets for the night.

The shop owner picked me up again, and this time said, “You need doctor.  Come on, we go.”

(Here is the owner, on the left, and his helper on the right.  Both of whom became major heroic characters in this scene of my life that day:)

I didn’t have my medication that I had packed with me, because it was in my backpack that the Germans took to the monastery.  And at this point, I had been at it for at least 6 hours, and I was so delirious that I didn’t quite have any arguing power.  He put me onto the back of his motorbike and drove me around the corner to a “doctor.”

Man I wish I had the sense to bring my camera: the doctors office was even smaller than the Travel Agency hole-in-the-wall.  It was nothing but a room with a plank covered in a blanket, which served as the examining table.  The doctor told me to lay down.  He took my blood pressure.  He listened to my heart.  He came over with a syringe, getting ready to punch it into God Knows Where.

“NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed, mustering my last bits of energy.  ”No! NO needle!!”

He tried to calm me down and persuade me to accept his medication, probably assuming I was simply afraid of needles.  So I jumped off the bed and began to walk away as fast as I could.  The shop owner said something to the doctor, perhaps along the lines of “Maybe she thinks she’ll get AIDS from this, not from lying on dirt.  Crazy, right?” The doctor put the needle away.  I laid back down.

He handed me 7 pills and some water.  I asked what they are, and he pointed to each one, labeling it:

“Vomit.  Stomach disease.  Stomach pain.  Head pain.  Diarrhea.”  (and I don’t remember the other ones.   I selected “vomit, diarrhea, and stomach disease.”  I didn’t take the others.  I paid him a hefty k5000, which is about $6.50 USD, and left with a box of rehydration packets.  I went back to the shop and passed out.

I asked the guy to take me to the monastery, because I realized I was sleeping where they normally sleep, and I didn’t want to take their bed (the floor in the back of the shop).

My bed

So he took me to the monastery.  And that’s where I passed out for the next 12 hours, broken up by vomiting spells every 2 hours throughout the night.

I woke up the next day around 2 pm, just in time to catch the bus to Yangon.  I had stopped puking about 5 hours earlier, and my man from the travel shop was there to take me to the bus.  I wasn’t passing any more liquids, and the “vomit” pill seemed to stop me from puking, so I figured I could get on another 20 hour bus ride.  I had to, anyways.  I had Couchsurfing arrangements in Yangon, and my flight was just a couple days away.  And I wanted noting to do with this dreadful town Nyaung Shwe.

So I took the bus back to Yangon.  Another overnighter, but this time I was gassed out.  I only puked once, but it was enough for the guy next to me to move and leave me with 2 seats so I could spread out and sleep the rest of the trip.  Perfect.

Now I am in Yangon again, and on the upswing.  I am resting, reading (I have read 9 books now, just in my time in Myanmar), and rehydrating.  I am ready to get to Bangkok, where I can do some more resting and recovering.  When you’re sick, on the streets of a dirty town, puking on snails and rotten veggies, the only thing that you can think of is home.  For the first time this whole trip, ALL I could think about was how much I wished I wasn’t here.  I wanted to be home with washing machines and grocery stores.  Friends, that I could send out to get me bread or crackers or GATORADE.  Oh my, it was the first time I regretted so strongly being alone.  I wanted someone to put cold damp towels on my neck, and speak to me in English.   I was so lonely, and so miserable.  I wanted to come home.

I spent yesterday in Yangon re-convincing myself that I am fine, and it’s all going to be OK, but shit, I don’t know how people keep traveling after getting sick like this time after time.  Like the South African guy I met in Hsipaw who had Malaria four times.  What?  Send me home!  I would certainly not stay on the road after that.   Coucsurfing tonight at the apartment of a lovely girl from Estonia with a Norweigan girl and a German guy.  Life is back to good.  Bangkok tomorrow