NORTHERN THAILAND
Trip Start
Feb 2005
1
3
6
Trip End
Mar 2005
Chaing Rai,
Thailand
Monday, January 10, 2005
................................................................................................
It's the butt crack of dawn when we leave the hotel to catch an early flight.
I wonder about Wat. He has mentioned that it takes him an hour and a half to drive to his home. Even on the days when we are 'at leisure' he sits in the hotel lobby until nine at night, just in case any one of us needs something. Wat leaves the hotel late, drives home, then must get up at four in the morning in order to make it back to the hotel in time to shepherd us onto the bus at 5:30 AM. Wat doesn't get a whole lot of sleep. It's not an easy way to make a buck: I wonder why he does this.
Thai people embrace work, in fact, seek it. They are hard-working and determined, and do not suffer slackers. Wat tells us that many Thai people go to universities in the United States, or in England. It seems to be the norm, that if you hold at least one degree, you are working on the next. Granted, Wat's descriptions of life in Thailand have been proud and glowing, like a parent at a third grade performance of The Sound of Music, but, still, I wonder about the percentage of educated people in Thailand. The Royal family sets a good example; they all hold numerous degrees, and not in Physical Education. ( Of course, if you are a Crown Prince, I bet your papers are looked at with a little less scrutiny than the guy's from Columbus, Ohio. It might be pretty easy to pick up a Master's Degree in microbiology. Look at George W. Bush. )
Now, at Bangkok Domestic Airport, Wat hands us our tickets, shepherds us through check-in, and waves good-bye. He will see us again in eleven days.
Outside the second security gate, I find a grocery store, filled with produce and saffron monks. ( Yesterday, Mary Anne wanted to know why their robes were different colors. The process of sun-bleaching was explained to her, along with the logistics of many washings, which caused her brow to furrow. )
On the plane, I find myself seated next to Inspector Clousseau's Valley Wife, whom I have not really spoken with yet. ( I started calling her Valley Wife after observing that her reaction to just about any statement - 'it's cloudy' 'two hundred baht' 'you are in room 2234' - involves a jaw-drop and stare that I have only seen with such great regularity in Southern California. )
I am pleased to find, after a few moments of conversation, that I am right: the Valley Wife was raised in LA, and now lives in San Diego! She is on her third marriage, having been once divorced and once widowed. I give her the short version of why I am on this tour alone - recently divorced, lonely, retired, writing a book. The Valley Wife is happy with this information: she is qualified to give advice on two of these topics, and she does so freely. We spend our hour-long flight to the north talking about men.
This will turn out to be our last real conversation on this trip.
...........................................................................
We are met at the little Chiang Rai Airport by our guide for this leg of the trip, Pat. Pat is younger than Wat, and has a wicked sense of humor.
In the van, going to our hotel, he tells us that after check-in, we will meet briefly in the lobby, then will be on our own for the rest of the day. This is fine with me: I need some time to myself.
At a stoplight, we sit beside another bus, one that is filled with more orange monks. The buses are window to window at a stoplight, and the two monks closest to me notice my amulets. They smile broadly, then turn and say something to the pair seated behind them. Before the light changes, I have forty monks grinning at me, giving me the universal 'thumbs up.'
They wave goodbye when the lights change.
..........................................................................
Arriving at our hotel, the bus crosses a narrow moat, pauses at a guard shack, and we enter large grounds that look vaguely Caribbean. I am getting a sense of déjà vu: where's the beach?
We pass a free-standing wooden building with a long veranda. On sloping lawns opposite the building, a stage has been set up, and many tables are being set for some big event. We mount a small hill and pull up a circular driveway at the front entrance, which overlooks a large fountain, and pools that are flanked by steep white marble stairs. The lobby is beautifully decorated, with tall ceiling, lots of artwork, plush furniture, and many floral displays. A plethora of immaculately groomed hotel employees bow and welcome us to their domain.
There is much discussion in the group going on right now about 'optional tours.' What does that mean? How much does it cost? Is one better than the other? After listening to diffferent people ask the same questions over and over again, I get my room key from the beautiful front desk clerks and go to an elevator bank, where a short, dark -haired man in an embroidered jacket is waiting to press the 'up' button for me.
He offers me a traditional wai ( bow ), says "sawadee kop." I wai him back, and give the woman's reply: "sawadee ka."
His eyes are fixated on my amulets, and he asks the question I have become used to hearing : am I a Buddhist?
The ritual inspection of my amulets follows, with a description of the powers of each one ( I'm happy to find that everyone says the same thing: they weren't blowing smoke at the amulet market. ) He beams happy approval at me and bows again.
In my room, I set out my travel candle, take ten minutes to unpack, and call housekeeping to pick up some laundry; then I go exploring.
I could be at any resort hotel in the world. Resort hotel architects must use a formula: this could be Ixtapa, St. John, or Bali. I could be on the coast of Spain, or in Greece. Hell - I could be back in Scottsdale! The main building is a tall pyramid, with big glass doors that take me out to an enormous pool, which has the typical swim-up bar with a thatched hut over it. I make a mental note to see if I can order a Tequila Sunrise later.
On the ground floor of the hotel, I find a spa, something that looks like a beauty shop, an English pub and a gift shop. There are no guests present, except for me.
In the gift shop, a young woman follows me around, smiling, not speaking. ( Here in the north, the English language is not as prevalent as it was in Bangkok : she is either very shy, or does not speak English. )
I smile back at her, then cross to the beauty parlor. She follows me, and indicates that she can help me here, as well. Using hand language, I request a manicure and pedicure appointment at four o'clock. She smiles and nods.
I wave at the elevator man and go back out the tall glass doors and down the steps to the pool. I take one of many unoccupied lounge chairs, order my drink, and settle in to read and swim.
As I lay on my lounge chair, I am transported to another place, another time: I am in Mazatlan, at the El Cid Hotel. It is 1983, and it is three days before the official winter season begins, right before Christmas. My husband and I have come for a two week vacation, and we have the large hotel to ourselves: restaurants, beach, pools, bars, shops - even the disco, which is kind of creepy.
When the band tunes up in the lobby bar, and we hear the opening chords of 'Feelings.' we run, laughing, out the door, into town. It's just too much, and we head to Senor Frog's for too many margaritas.
Back in Chiang Rai, just before four o'clock, I go to the beauty parlor, where the same young woman meets me, bows, and indicates that I should sit down on the couch. She disappears behind a screen and comes back with towels and an old-fashioned wash basin, filled with warm water.
Shop Girl is now Spa Girl, and she proceeds to give me a silent manicure and pedicure. I tip well and leave, mortified at all that she does, and feeling like an Ugly American on an expensive vacation.
The sun goes down, and things cool off to a mere ninety-five degrees. We have been told that the night markets of the north are wonderful - there is a night market here, and I walk across the moat and head into town. The Party Couple is walking in, too, and we walk together.
Chiang Rai is a small, working class town - a place where local farmers visit for supplies. The Night Market seems to be popular. Stalls are being set up, tables arranged with - hey! - T-shirts, elephant art, underwear, shoes, silk pillow cases, jewelry, hair ornaments - it's the same stuff! As I go deeper into the market, I see that a few new things have been added - household items, some silk pajamas, knock-off watches.
Then I get to the food court at the center of the bazaar.
The food court could be at any state fair back in Wisconsin. The set-up is the same : a square of open wooden booths, strung with bright lights, surround a plaza set with long wooden tables that are covered in oilcloth. I walk the square, waiting for something to tempt me. After watching a young woman wipe her dirty knife on a grungy towel before chopping some veggies, I decide that, maybe, this is one market I will pass on, food wise.
( Perhaps there is something to be said for health inspections.)
While The Party Couple bargain for Rolex knock-offs, I find one of my favorite sites in Chiang Rai: the Bug Booth.
It's a bright, shiny display, in the middle of the Food Court, and there's a line of folks, patiently waiting for fried cockroaches, maggots, some sort of worm ( that is still moving ), and some pretty big critters with wings. The cockroaches are about three inches long, and look ....crunchy.
I'm game, but not that game. Now wearing his new "Rolex", The Party Guy and I offer each other increasing amounts of baht to buy-and-eat, but neither one of us is going to try this particular taste delight. ( Later, Travel Guy will tell us that he'll eat anything: he tried a roach. It was crunchy. )
Note : at the Wisconsin State Fair, the big food draw is cream puffs..
.........................................................................
Tired of tourist traps, the next morning we are all pleasantly surprised by our trip to the Royal Doi Tung Project.
In the lush green hills above Chiang Rai, the Royal Family of Thailand is making an effort to change the local economy. Instead of moving to Bangkok to work in a bar, or growing opium poppies in the mountains, local teens can work at the Doi Tung Project and make paper, grow coffee, throw pots or weave cotton. I picture this conversation :
"Uan, don't go to Bangkok to sell opium! Stay here - you make such pretty pots!" That would have worked with my daughter. ( Not. )
Doi Tung is quite beautiful, though, and we walk from building to building in a farm-like atmosphere set against the rollings hills. Beautiful handmade papers dry on racks in the sun, young women weave soft cloth from cotton bolls, and tailors cut patterns from the same cloth.
Purchases are made. Gleeful, we leave Doi Tung and head to the Royal Gardens, where we walk through acres of orchids and climb through elaborate gardens that decorate steep hills.
Grateful for the chance to stretch my bus-weary legs, I come a hill to find a coffee shop. I sit down next to a pair of elderly Thai women, who are peacefully eating jam rolls and drinking iced coffee.
The rest of the group straggles up to the coffee shop, and the seven of us who are taking an 'optional tour' to Padong Karen, the Long Neck Hilltribe Village, load our sweaty bodies into a small van. We drive through the smoky countryside, past burning rice fields and water buffalo, and begin a long climb into the mountains.
Finally, at the end of a long dirt road, we come to a row of thatched booths, manned by small, elderly women in traditional hill tribe dress : long-sleeved black cotton tops, above black pants and skirts, all embroidered in red and white, and wrapped up with belts and sashes. They also wear the traditional head gear, which is also for sale: an intricate affair made of hanging beads and silver coins, hung on a headband that tops a peaked hat. I pick up one of the hats - three hundred baht - and I am surprised at how heavy it is. Even babies, slung on their mother's backs, are wearing this headgear, coins dangling on their tiny foreheads.
This hilltribe has added a new dimension to our tourist experience : ten baht per picture, paid in advance. I hand my baht over to a woman who barely comes up to my big American shoulders. She has a baby on her back, and I tickle his tiny feet while he looks at me like I am going to eat him alive. Her hat stands a good eight inches above her scalp, and I wonder if these folks dress like this at any other time in their lives, or if this is just like a job at the local amusement park. She communicates to me with the few English words she knows: "mama" "baby" "ten baht" and "three hundred baht.".
We are shown a 'traditional hill tribe house', complete with pigs in the yard and a satellite dish in the garden, then are escorted through a long row of thatched stands that lead us up, then down a hill that is becoming increasingly steeper. We are handed bamboo hiking poles, and two little boys scamper ahead of us, pausing every fifty feet or so to check on our progress.
The path is narrow, and is surrounded by dense foliage. We cross a stream on a bamboo bridge and watch a primative water distribution project that slowly moves up and down, carrying water through bamboo reeds to the village below.
At the foot of the hill, in another long row of thatched huts, hung with bright fabric and scarves that are for sale, along with dolls, earrings, and t-shirts, we find the reason for our visit : the Long Neck Girls.
When girls in this tribe of Burmese refugees are six years old, their mothers wrap their little necks in copper coils, to a height of six inches, stretching their necks. The coils are replaced at the age of fifteen, and for the last time when they are young women of twenty-four. By then, of course, it is dangerous to remove the coils, as the neck muscles have completely atrophied, and the women cannot hold their heads up.
In the middle of each hut before us is a high wooden platform that looks like a stage. Each hut also has one or two young girls seated inside. In a few of the huts, the young women are lying down, their necks resting on a wooden block.
When I ask our guide how this tradition started, he tells me that many years ago, a father decided that it would be a good idea to wrap his daughter's neck in copper coils to show respect for the King. Other fathers liked this idea : all those little necks were wrapped, the idea stuck, and now it is considered a sign of beauty.
The girls - and they are young, all of them - look like porcelain dolls to me - tiny, thin, and pretty. They are all wearing makeup, and have tall hats with flowers on them perched on their heads, above their coiled necks. Many of the women also wear coils on their legs and arms.
I wonder how hot that copper gets in the summer. For ten baht, we take a picture : me, wearing my amulets, carrying a bamboo hiking pole, standing next to a fragile creature in flowers and coils, in the shade of a thatched souvenir stand. I look sad, and she looks happy.
On the drive back to town, there is much discussion about this tribe, their customs, and their way of life. Pat describes how the tribe fled Burma, seeking freedom from the tyranny that rules in Burma, and how they crossed the mountains ( on foot ) into Thailand, only to have the Thai government stop them in their tracks.
They can't go forward, and they can't go back. They are not allowed to leave their compound: no trips into town for rice, no going to the night bazaar for a walk and some roaches, no praying at the temple. This small tribe is dependent on the generousity of the local villagers for food; they forage what they can from the jungle around them.
Mary Anne thinks this must be an ideal existence. She waxes on about how simple and perfect it would be to live like this - no cell phones, no cars, no social pressure. I ask if she took a picture of a baby on a woman's back.
"Yes - that baby on her Grandmother's back was so cute!'
When I point out to Mary Anne that the baby was on his mother's back - not his grandmother's - her brow furrows.
"But she's so old!"
No, Mary Anne, she just looks old: living in the jungle with no regular source of food, her neck all coiled up, depending on ten baht from a white farang to take her picture, is a hard life.
......................................................................................
That night, on a stage in the center of the food court at the night bazaar, three young women in elaborate hair and makeup, dressed in evening gowns, are lip-synching to Thai pop songs. They're very pretty, very delicate. They are also men.
I go back to the hotel, sit on the dark and quiet veranda, have a glass of wine, then go my room and read.
For some reason, Chiang Rai depresses me.
............................................................................
The next day, I leap at the chance for an optional tour to another village - a village that raises elephants. The group meets on the hotel veranda in cool morning air and we walk down to the river, where longboats are waiting. Everyone is curious about The Phantom: where is she? None of us have seen her. Pat tells us that she is staying at the hotel - no optional tours or longboat rides for her.
We briefly talk about last night's earthquake - CNN reported an 8.7 quake in Indonesia, off the coast of Sumatra - too far away for us to feel the earth crack and shake, but still in our neck of the woods.
As our longboats approach the village, I see elephants - lots of elephants! Climbing onto the shore, I steer past rows of souvenir tables and head for the bags of elephant food - bananas, whole melons, foot long sticks of sugar cane. I know it's elephant food because the cardboard sign says so : " Elephant Food : Twenty Baht." .
My mahout wants two riders - Lips is solo today, so she climbs onboard the big critter with me. We take off our shoes to feel his muscles moving, and I take a picture of our painted toes against his prickly shoulders. Later on, we will find out that our elephant must have liked this: he has a giant erection going as we leave the village and head into the rice paddies.
We climb hills behind the village, wave at children playing in a schoolyard, admire the size of the pigs sleeping in a garden, and take pictures of mountains in the distance. We are having great fun until our mahout turns the elephant and parks him in someone's front yard.
We exchange nervous looks as he slides down the elephant's trunk and walks away from us, until he reaches a large tree that shelters him as he takes a whiz. We keep offering melons and bananas to the trunk that snakes back to us, and hope this keeps the elephant happy until our driver returns.
Back on the trail, the mahout takes us through rice paddies and over hills, while we bump and slide around in our elephant seat, legs slung over the wooden slats on the side of the cradle, to keep us from falling off. I am overjoyed when we climb down a hill and splash into the river. The elephant drinks, splashes some water on us, trumpets, and walks in the water until we reach the main village, where our longboats rest on the shore.
I'm in such a good mood when we get off the elephant that I buy two shirts and some wooden elephant bells.
We longboat back to town, where Pat takes us to lunch at another hotel - the food is good, the restaurant is filled with locals, and I am really enjoying my fried pork and cucumber, when I notice that no one else is eating. The rest of the group thinks the food is too spicy, and there's no pad Thai - the one dish everyone knows. Personally, I am really enjoying the food of northern Thailand - it's a coarser cuisine than Bangkok's, spicy and full of peppers and personality.
After lunch, Pat has rickshaws waiting for us. We ride around the town and are dropped off at the local market - an open air department store, Thai country style.
The market is hot, crowded, and dark. We walk past stands selling clothing, spices, produce, shoes, small bales of tobacco, and live fish that are swimming in plastic buckets of water on the floor, sitting under counters piled high with shellfish from the river.
There are booths with nothing but peppers - forty or fifty different varieties - and the air fills with capsicum, making everyone sneeze. We pass a booth that sells bathing suits and bicycle parts, all of it hanging from the ceiling and the walls. Then we are in household goods - dishes, pots and pans, plastic bowls, aprons, knives, towels, and wicker baskets of all sizes, piled high.
We emerge from the market across a crowded street from a temple. Going into the temple, we admire a beautiful room filled with intricate paintings and an Emerald Buddha, before striking the temple bells for good luck. We go our separate ways; I take off in a rickshaw, in search of a camera shop, while the others go to the pool for some cool water and cold beer.
.......................................................................
Dinner tonight is a festive affair; we are driven to a local restaurant, where we will sample local specialties. As we take our seats in the restaurant's courtyard, we watch a small stage, where a couple of teenagers are doing the Thai Fingernail Dance, rotating their wrists, gracefully arcing four-inch fingernails.
Our dinner has been pre-ordered, but I still want to read the menu, which happens to be very interesting: Minced Bamboo Worm with Chili Dip, Baked Snake Head, Spicy White Jew's Ear with Shrimps, Papaya Salad with Snake Head, Pig's Neck, and Fried Chicken Calves. ( Mary Anne is also reading the menu. She looks at me and says "I didn't know that chickens had calves!")
As the food begins to arrive, there is an uprising - Hubby doesn't like the looks of the shrimp ( still with eyes ) that we are supposed to eat whole, shell and all. The snakehead fish does not go over very well, and people are being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Bickering is breaking out over proper manners in a foreign country.
I'm dissappointed at how bland this food is. The spices have all been removed, and everything but the tiny shrimp is blanketed in a sweet gooey sauce.
Half of the group takes a van back to hotel, for some Western food, but The Professor, Mary Anne and I decide to take a tuk-tuk around town. Later, as I enter the hotel lobby, The Party Couple is going into the English Pub, and they invite me to join them for a drink or two.
Entertainment in the English Pub consists of one guy in a tuxedo playing an electric keyboard. We are the only people in the bar, and Party Guy is throwing requests at our one-man band - mostly Elvis tunes. Before too long, he's up on the stage singing with The Piano Man, and soon he has the mike all to himself. It turns out that The Party Guy can sing; he has a good voice, and knows the lyrics to every song recorded between 1950 and 1970. Before long, more people are coming into the bar, and Party Guy is forced to relinquish the mike to a six year old girl from Jakarta, whose family has taken a table in front of the stage. The little girl - Sarah - sings "My Heart Will Go On" with much emotion, and gets rousing cheers from us, as we party on into the night.
................................................................................
The next morning, I wake up with a hangover.
It's another hot and humid day in Thailand, and I am drinking water as fast as I can recycle it. I am pretty subdued as we enter the Monk College - Buddhism 101 is going to be presented to us by a very funny monk, who happens to be an avid American sports fan - he knows the teams from everyone's home town. He also likes root beer.
The monk talks to us about the precepts of Buddhism, while a younger monk beside him runs a computer generated slide show. The Nice Couple wants to know what heaven and hell are like for Buddhists. The monk explains that it's hell on earth, and they somehow turn this into a Christian lecture on the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The monk, who has done this before, directs the lecture back to Buddhism, and we learn about the monk's role in Thai society, a role that incudes sex education, which I find very interesting. These guys are truly woven into the fabric of Thai life. But, because all Thai men are encouraged to spend a part of their lives as a monk, does this mean that all their attitudes and prejudices come with them? Or do they leave that part of their lives behind when they don the orange robe?
At the end of our time with the monks, we are offered cookies and lemonade, but no root beer. ( Our monk has told us that you can't find it in Thailand, much to his dismay.) We pay our respects, I buy a couple of books on Buddhism, and we take off for our afternoon destination : Laos.
