Myanmar cruise: Cooking class at Inle Lake for food-obsessed tourists

"We call this 'fish in trouble'," says Chef Aung Zaw Lin, sliding the fish into the steaming wok. Given the freshly caught carp has been gutted, stuffed with ginger, trussed with bamboo strips and is now floating in boiling oil, I can see what he means. "My mother taught me how to make it."

Aung Zaw Lin's mother taught her food-obsessed son may things – how to prepare a curry using just garlic, ginger and turmeric, to blend ripe and unripe tomatoes for a red and green salad, and never to serve mushrooms to guests or the friendship will end.

Today it is Aung's turn to pas the knowledge on, this time to visitors interested in learning about the traditional way of life of the Intha people of Inle Lake. While the "fish in trouble" is frying, Aung pounds ginger, red onion, coriander and garlic at the family's kitchen table, the fresh aromas drawing little faces to the doorway. A throng of tourists in the family kitchen is still a novelty in these parts.

Aung's English is poor, relying mostly on our guide to interpret, but he is keen to make the transition from restaurant chef to hands-on teacher. In the week prior to my visit Aung San Suu Kyi's National League for Democracy had won an outright majority in Myanmar's landmark election, with the mood across the country cautiously optimistic for the future. So optimistic, my guide still wears the smudge of ink on her little finger (proving she has voted) as a badge of honour. I see her many times holding it up in silent admiration.

My foray into local food began that morning when we our group of six boarded a longtail boat for the trip across Inle Lake, a 22-kilometre indigo-blue lake in Myanmar's Shan state. Entering a small rivulet we reach the watery village of Inn Paw Kaund, where stilt houses propped on matchstick legs stand about like weary watchmen.

Puttering past women doing their morning wash and children waving we pull up at a rickety wooden jetty, where strong hands reach out to guide us ashore. Inside, the sparse furniture of the living room has been pushed back to make way for a low table and bamboo floor cushions. Momentarily I feel self-conscious, like a voyeur, but Aung Zaw Lin greets us with a smile and ushers us into his kitchen, the hub of the home.

Unlike other paint-by-number cooking classes I've joined, this is the real, home-cooked deal – delightfully noisy, messy (though scrupulously clean) and chaotic. The gleam of the brand-new knives the only signs that change is underway.