We stepped into a small concrete and corrugated metal shelter just off the rutted dirt road. I sat down and bent forward slightly; some digestive issues had presented themselves that morning, a couple of hours prior. Our guides dipped a tin cup into a pot of water for road wayfarers and took some sips. I took a few gulps from my water bottle. Then, we all shouldered our packs and trudged onward.
The road veered to and fro, switchbacking up the steep hillside. Periodically we’d cut upward on pedestrian paths, shortcutting the curves. I grabbed the fabric of my elephant pants which weren’t particularly well-fitting on my thighs for the steeper climbs. We dripped sweat. Frequently we’d hear the telltale chugging of a trucktor making its way, those chimera vehicles made of old truck bodies with tractor engines affixed to the front. We were amused every time they drove by. And despite my abnormal physical discomfort, and the thus-far solely uphill climb, I was enjoying the walk. As I do, I kept finding myself speeding up into a quick rhythm as my surroundings drifted by, a comforting tunnel.
We stopped for lunch at See Kyat Inn village. Our guides cooked for us in a couple’s kitchen. On the patio, the woman sifted through beans. We sat near, alternating between the sun, which was hot, and the shade, which was cool enough to warrant a hoodie. When our guides beckoned us upstairs to eat, we were presented with quite a nice – and large – meal: fried noodles with vegetables and avocado. I was disappointed that I couldn’t stuff myself, instead cautiously eating a normal portion.
The last couple of hours of walking weren’t steep. We had reached the top of the hills, passing through tea farms and blossoming cherry trees into scrubbier green patches. As we strode along, we passed a guy washing something in the parallel stream. Our guide went and bought some. Indian leeks, he told us. Soon after we crossed through a field and then below we could make out our destination: Yasakyi, a village which shared its name with the pointy mountain it sat under. The sunlight shone softly above, not yet having ducked down behind the hills encircling the village valley.
We were shown to a corner of a room in a monastery where we placed our packs by our bedding on the floor. Then, while our guides began cooking, we wandered around the grounds. An old lady came up to us where we had sat, motioning that we were sleeping in the monastery, and, pointing, she sleeps in her home right nearby. We smiled and nodded and she beckoned, come, come. So we followed. We knelt into her home and sat on her floor while she began making us tea. The boiling water spewed steam into the dark room, which swirled around us before escaping out the window. The woman brought a bag to us: dried tea leaves. For us? I gestured. Keep it, keep it. We sat and drank three cups of tea, just smiling back and forth. Then, a guide poked his head in, along with a German couple he was leading. They were staying one night at the old woman’s home before heading back to Pindaya. Please, tell her thank you from us, we asked. She’s deaf, the guide said. So we smiled and drank some more tea before gesturing we better get back to the monastery. We made our way back out into the dusky light, detouring around aggressive geese on the stairs.
During our tea visit, we had acquired roommates: a Belgian couple who were quite nice and interesting companions for the next few days. One of our monk hosts also passed by and said a few words, those few that were mutually understood. And then we ate dinner together sitting around a low table covered in an impressive and tasty array of food: soup, rice, leeks, tofu, pumpkin, other vegetables. Sadly, I still wasn’t feeling well. We were also joined by the most polite cats I have ever encountered – though the table was no more than a foot off the floor, they didn’t jump into our meal. Rather, the smallest cat settled in Ben’s lap as we slowly ate.
The night was cold and I didn’t sleep well – partially from the surface where we lay, harder than I am accustomed to, but mainly from anxiety and discomfort surrounding my intestines. After rolling around for some time, I strapped on my headlamp and ventured out into the night for the toilet. The dark was velvety and indifferent, impenetrable without my headlamp and not easily spread with it. Though turns out I had gotten up more out of anxiety than actual toilet-need, I hesitated outside. The dark was scary and pressing and full. But the stars. I tilted my head back and could see them all.
At 7:30 in the morning we unbundled ourselves from our blankets and made our way to breakfast. This time, the little cat sat in my lap. My stomach hurt so I ate lightly, again feeling remorse I couldn’t properly indulge in the nice cooking. And then we were off into the lingering dew, walking along a more meandering path that passed through more villages. Most of them are Danu villages, our guide told us. We peered around.
After a couple of hours, we stopped in Pin Sein Pin for lunch in another home. An older couple showed us upstairs and put some pillows on the floor, motioning we could rest. The man gave us a guestbook to sign and we flipped through, seeing who else had been by. He also handed us a note, which later a friend translated for me. It wished us and our fellow Americans health and wealth. The woman took a real shine to me, beaming and touching me, holding my hands. It was sweet; I could only smile back.
It was one final hour of walking to Kan Hla Kone, our final overnight stop. We were staying in another monastery. We dropped off our belongings and then sat down with the master monk who gave us tea and cookies. The guide who had arranged the trek for the Belgian couple dropped by to check on us, and then acted as a translator between us and the master. We asked about his life, about Buddhism, and we learned monks there can’t eat after noon (hence his smiling and waving on when we had offered the cookie tray to him).
After tea, we wandered the grounds in the long dusk. A crazy orange cat was leaping around. We managed to grab it and pet it, and then it liked us. Another monk walked by, smiling and waving. Every time we saw him, he was accompanied by a cat tangled up in his feet.
Contrasting with the evening, the night passed loudly, with wind smacking the metal roof. Nonetheless, I was fond of sleeping in the corners and corner rooms of these halls, with Buddha taking the center.
In the morning we had yet another heaping meal: tea, toast, fried egg and rice, lemon cake, and a fruit I could not identify – something like a shiny green apple whose texture and taste is like that of an Asian pear, and contains a pit.
And then: quickly downhill for those last few hours, full circle to Pindaya. As we reached the foot of the hills, we joined a larger road and cars, and trucktors, made their way past, kicking up dust alongside us. Covering this ground, I felt hastier, somewhat more anxious, knowing the destination was almost reached, we were approaching, almost done. There was more noise than there had been up in the hills, and the sun was sharper.