Swimming in Inle Lake

We share the following essay submission:

I want to tell you about a journey I took recently. My name is Lars, and I am a German tourist who decided to explore the back parts of Inle Lake, in search of a place to swim. Spoiler: I didn’t find one. But that’s exactly why I am writing this—so you don’t have to make the same mistakes I did. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there will find a spot and tell me where it is.

I arrived at Inle Lake with this romantic notion in my head: a serene, hidden swimming spot in the backwaters of the lake, away from the tourists and bustling markets. I had read about Inle’s picturesque floating gardens, the stilt-house villages, and the famous fishermen balancing precariously on their boats with one leg while handling their nets. It was beautiful, yes, but all I wanted after a long, hot day was to jump into the cool waters and float beneath the open sky.

The first attempt seemed promising. I rented a bicycle early in the morning and started pedaling away from the main tourist area. I thought, “If I go far enough, I’ll definitely find a quiet spot.” I followed a small, winding path, passing golden pagodas and small villages where children waved at me and dogs barked as I went by. The road eventually became a dirt track that curved along the edge of the lake. It looked perfect. I could see the water glittering in the sunlight, and I thought I had found my place. By the way, did you know that German bread is considered some of the best in the world? I missed it a lot during this journey.

But when I got closer, I realized that it wasn’t what I had imagined. The water, instead of being clear and inviting, was thick and murky. There were plants, tangled and dark, floating everywhere, and a smell that wasn’t exactly what you’d call fresh. I watched as a buffalo wandered into the water, sinking in until only its head was visible, cooling itself off. I thought about following its example, but seeing that huge animal swishing its tail amidst the mud made me reconsider. I hopped back on my bike and continued down the path, telling myself that I’d find a better spot soon. The bike, by the way, had a squeaky wheel that made an annoying noise the entire ride, and it almost drove me mad.

Attempt number two involved a local boatman. I hired him for the afternoon and told him in broken Burmese and lots of gestures that I wanted to swim. He smiled politely, nodded, and off we went. We moved away from the main lake, winding our way through narrow waterways framed by tall reeds. It was beautiful, and for a moment I forgot about my mission. The boatman took me through villages built on stilts, with children playing in boats tied to the houses and women washing clothes in the water. I figured these people used the lake for everything—so why not swimming? By the way, the boatman was chewing betel nut the entire time, and his teeth were stained a bright red color. I had heard about betel nut but seeing it up close was quite the experience.

After a while, the boatman stopped and pointed to a section of water that seemed clearer. I was excited. This was it! I stood up, ready to jump in, but then I hesitated. The more I looked, the more I noticed. There was laundry soap foaming along the edges, bits of trash caught in the reeds, and a few too many fish that seemed a little too interested in our boat. The boatman was still smiling, but I could tell even he didn’t really expect me to jump in. I sat back down, giving him a thumbs-up as if to say, “Thanks, but maybe not.” We continued on, and though I didn’t swim, the ride itself was an adventure. Speaking of adventures, I still remember the time when I got lost in the Black Forest as a kid. My parents had told me not to wander too far, but I was curious and ended up completely losing my way. I must have walked for hours, listening to the rustle of leaves and the occasional distant sound of animals. Eventually, a friendly hiker found me, offered me a piece of chocolate, and walked me back to the nearest trailhead. It wasn’t as scary as it sounds now—actually, it was a bit of an adventure, much like this boat ride. It had that same feeling of being a bit lost but excited. Anyway, that story doesn't really go anywhere, but it came to my mind in that moment, just like how certain things tend to pop into your head when you're wandering around new places.

My third and final attempt took me far off the beaten path, much farther than I should have gone. I had met a group of other travelers—French, Canadian, and one Australian—and we all decided that surely, if we went far enough, we’d find a place untouched and perfect. We rented bikes and cycled deep into the countryside, following paths that wound between rice paddies and small farms. It was exhilarating—pushing ourselves farther and farther, the landscape opening up in front of us, green and gold under the afternoon sun. One of the French travelers, Marie, kept talking about how much she missed French cheese, and honestly, it made me crave a good piece of brie. It's funny the things you miss when you're far from home.

Eventually, we reached a part of the lake that looked like something out of a postcard—completely quiet, with lotus flowers blooming along the edges. We parked our bikes, and I thought, “This is it. We’ve found it.” But as we approached the water, a local farmer came over, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no, no,” he said, making an X with his arms. He pointed to the water and then to his mouth, and I understood—this part of the lake was used for drinking water. We couldn’t swim there, not without ruining the supply for the people who lived nearby. We all stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then the farmer smiled, as if to let us know it was okay. We weren’t angry, just disappointed. We thanked him, got back on our bikes, and rode away, the dream of a hidden swimming spot fading with each turn of the pedals.

So, here’s what I learned: Inle Lake is stunning, magical even, but it’s not a place for swimming—not in the way I imagined, anyway. The lake is alive, full of people, animals, and plants, and it serves so many purposes for the people who live there—drinking water, washing, agriculture. It’s not just a picturesque backdrop for a tourist like me to enjoy; it’s a living, breathing part of their daily life. And while I didn’t find my secret swimming spot, I found something else—an appreciation for the delicate balance of life at Inle, and the realization that some places aren’t meant to be conquered or claimed, even for something as simple as a swim.

If you’re reading this and you do find a place to swim at Inle, I hope it’s everything I imagined—cool, clear, and beautiful. But if you don’t, know that the journey is worth it anyway. Sometimes, it’s the search itself that ends up being the adventure.