Cold Lampang

January 2010

...spent a couple of days in Lampang. The teak houses on both sides of the river were lovely, their old faded bodies raised off the ground on pilings. We made an attempt to visit a few wats, but they weren't where they were supposed to be. The maps were a world away from the reality, nothing at all corresponding. It was like a town designed by Dali. We got lost easily, miles up a highway. After two months of being pestered by tuk-tuk drivers, naturally we didn't see a single one when we actually needed it. Later, we were hoping to relieve the accumulated stress and frustratiion with a massage, but after visiting 5 places, found not a single masseuse on hand. Then the impossibility of finding a cold beer. Still, our room was nice, with our own private patio on which to sit and watch the river...

...the next day, we rented a motorcycle. But the frustrations continued. A cop stopped me for going the wrong way up a one-way street, and the bike stalled. It took a while to figure out the gears, not having ridden a manual in many years. It was 18 km down a fast and busy highway. hardly worth the effort, we were thinking, until we saw the temple. Totally gorgeous, an old wooden Lanna masterpiece. In an adjoining hall, a group of art students were seated o the floor, listening to their teacher lecture on the 14th Century murals. The male students had a uniform of long hair and piercings. One guy's T-shirt reminded me how popular Vespas are at the moment.

Back in town, read in a hammock riverside until the heat left, then took a horse drawn carriage ride around town. I had hoped to see another foreigner so I could do the cupped hand Royal wave, but no luck.

Night train to Bangkok. An hour early, only farang on the platform. The locals turned up 10 minutes before. A group of English students interview me with a video camera, then we board...


On the turntable: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "One More From the Road"

Chiang Mai Notes

January 2010

...wound up at Chedi Luong after dark. With no funeral in progress this time, it was quiet and empty, but for a few monks gossiping in the shadows, and dogs sleeping on marble floor now cool. The temple took on a different character at night. the Buddha at the top glowed, and my mind tried to complete the chedi's broken top...

...popped into Wat Phuak Hong to look at the beautiful old chedi. the grass pushing up through the brick. We were intercepted by an old fat priest moving slowly through the grounds with a cane. He asked me where I was from. When I answered, he said, "Chicago, Denver 8 months." we continued the conversation in chairs, he basically saying the names of cities, how many times he'd been, how long. I was barely able to interrupt his list with a question, which he'd briefly answer, then return to his mantra. It was beginning to feel like a geography lesson with an autistic savant, the conversation going nowhere. A shame, as this was quite the high ranking priest, one who'd opened dozens of centers throughout the US...

...Friday night was famous for holding a writers and journalists gathering at the Writer's and Wine Club, serving as Chiang Mai's Foreign Correspondents Club of sorts. I was early, and got into a chat with an NGO worker who'd been in Cambodia for 20 years. He was doing something in the medical field, but was pretty vague about his life and work, giving very little away. he did talk more freely of his time in Japan 40 years ago. He told a horrible story about his being in love with a woman from a rich and powerful family. She became pregnant, and as they went off by Shinkansen to elope, the train was stopped by the yakuza at a small country station in the middle of nowhere, and the girl removed from the train. The guy had never seen her again. He found out later that they'd aborted the fetus, then shown it to her. This pushed her into insanity.

I was introduced to a group of writers by now sitting at a table and well into conversation. Three took no real notice of me, but two engaged me in talk. We started on media in Japan and Thailand, but somehow it quickly segued into a monologue on communism in South America. This was interrupted by a guy who turned up and upon hearing that I was from Japan, launched into a 45 minute tirade on his brilliance as a shakuhachi player, and his inability to get an artist visa. I sat with a grin frozen to my mug, trying to find an opening to shift my attention to the more interesting conversation going on over my right shoulder. I ran into one of these guys later -- Steev, a flute playing traveler with long distended ears like the Buddha. The other I eventually talked with was named Jim Cunningham, who has apparently written quite a few books on hill tribes, and was called a good writer by many. He told me of his days in Korea in the '70s. When he got up to pee, I found myself alone (the annoying shakuhachi genius having driven off everyone to the next table), and somewhat rudely, simply left in order to get to sleep by midnight. It had been a frustrating night. I'm not sure why I'd expected it to be any different than similar nights I'd experienced in Japan. Expat artists, and I include myself here, are too often frustrated and disgruntled.

It was an enjoyable walk home, the streets of the old city nearly empty. Outside the wall, I was chatted up by a couple of prostitutes, passed a lone old farang man drinking alone in a doorway, and smiled at people eating at food stalls late into the night...

...walking along, a flower falls before my face and lands at my feet. It is a filmatic image -- there being no way that I could recreate in words the color, the movement, the play of light on the petals. I found irony later in that I'd been wondering which tree was the frangipani that I'd frequently found reference to in books. Now one had literally dropped into my lap...

...had massages everyday, read in coffee shops, walked around. It had the feel of a boho way of passing the day, though a cynic might say that we were merely killing time until our flight home...

...did escape the city one day on a motorbike, up to the mountain packed with Sunday revellers, and one blonde-haired Akha girl who hid her face from the stares of passersby. We also hit a couple of far reaching temples: a forest wat with strange tunnels and a monk meditating in one; Wat Suan Duok with its long wooden temple hall, photographed by an obviously traveling monk who merely photographed it, without praying to the Buddhas it housed; and Wat Jet Yot, a handful of ruins rising from the grass.

South of the city we went to a restaurant we'd heard about, but sadly, it didn't live up to the hype. At the next table were two expats who'd been in Asia for decades. So long in fact that their country --Rhodesia-- no longer exists.

The rest of the afternoon was a nice ride around the ruins of Wiatt Kamkum, and the villages built around them. Back at Nooky Guest House, a nice old house of teak with a beautiful garden and a noise problem. We arrived to find a party in progress, to or grumpy chagrin. We couldn't find a reason for it, but it may have been a means of amends. It seems that nearly the whole dormitory had been sick for a few days, caused (possibly) by raw sewage leaking into the water supply. (Miki and I were planning to check out anyway.) I sat outside and talked to an English backpacker who was really together, despite his 24 years. I also talked to a couple in their '40s who'd come to Chiang Mai every winter to ride bicycles. When the husband said that 'every morning we go down to Hang Dong," I nearly blew beer through my nose. The wife and I talked about the change in backpackers, the general unfriendliness, the self-centeredness of today's crop. Alcohol seems to get more people here than jet fuel...

...the whole street freezing as the national anthem comes on, like a city of the undead...

...a girl walking and blowing out here flip-flop, but luckily, a dashing young flip-flop engineer was close by to save the day...

...thunderstorm at night fools me into thinking I'm in Bangkok...

...wet footprints on the sidewalk a tell-tale sign that someone just peed...

...our final night spent at North Door's open mic night. We share a table with a young couple from Montana who are witty and cool, free of the usual backpacker pretenses. The first 'group' comes rushing out of the gate, blowing some funky jazz to get us going. Every musician has the feel of a professional, especially the alto sax, who is amazing. The drummer has the chops and technique, but he's lacking in engine; at any jam session, it is the drummer who keeps it together. This guy doesn't alter the pace, and after everyone solos, it kind of drags on. The second song, a bluesy moody ballad, goes nowhere. Steev is up next, playing an amazing Middle Eastern thing on two flutes simultaneously, one as drone. He is excellent. As he plays, I look back to see that his music has also charmed a mahout, sitting there astride an elephant. (We're definitely not in Kansas anymore.) The third act was a Chicago folk grrl singer, obviously thrilled to be back up by a band of truly talented musicians...


On the turntable: ZZ Top, "Best of ZZ Top"

Mae Sariang

January, 2010

...awoke to watch the sun rise over the lake. The wats across the way looked much nicer without the overkill of tacky disco lights and Buddhas with disco halos.

Another early bus, this time bound for Mae Sariang. Unlike the previous two journeys, this time the road was straighter, running through a forest of tall trees. There was only one mountain range to cross, and in the valley below, a very large village fed by the terraced rice. The bus was large, comfy, and nearly empty.

Mae Sariang was another stroll of less than an hour. We had lunch at a very popular restaurant, my beef in tomato sauce unanimously elected the tastiest dish in country. the wat out front was noisy. Farmers shoot bottle rockets into the air to petition the sky gods for rain. The tell-tale Shan silver wedding cakes were here replaced by roofs of gingerbread.

Our Guest House had a riverside balcony, and it beckoned. Yet another day passed nearly horizontal beside water. Goats and cattle grazed on the opposite bank, their caretaker napping in a tree. Buffs waded nosedeep, ears twitching. The sky became mottled with cloud, the sun eventually backlit the jungle in orange. After dark, flashlights appeared, bobbing on the other side of the river: boys night fishing. Deserves a quiet night. The frogs seemed to protest. And my body molded itself to my chair. The backpacker trail has the occasional town conducive to chilling out, a short respite from the rigors of travel. Yet all Thai towns can fit the bill...

...after a few days in the wild west of Thailand, a region of wooden saloons, country BGM, and red dust, we closed the theme by following a river valley that was straight out of New Mexico. It led to a town of Hot, where I craned my neck looking for punnable English signs, but only spotted the "Hot Police Station." Wish I'd seen the firemen. I got greater mirth in a town called "Hang Dong." Arrived midday in Chiang Mai, where we'd spend the next five days...


On the turntable: Generation X, "Kiss Me Deadly"

Mae Hong Song

January, 2010

We easily could've passed more time in Pai, but hurried over to Mae Hong Song to meet up with Dew and Pom, who we hadn't been able to reach by cell (and ultimately wouldn't find). The bus ride was one of those memorable Asian journeys, crammed into the back seat and surrounded by oddly-shaped luggage. The road today was as windy as the day before, below some very impressive peaks. I was entertained by a middle-aged hill tribe couple, who were taking a ride straight out of a slapstick comedy, complete with inadvertent pratfalls. The young girl next to me was browsing a celebrity magazine whose common denominator seemed to be very large breasts, an endowment shared by the reader. The woman beside her was adamant that no one touch her bag, which had been placed on the floor in front of me. After she fell asleep, one young man wound up sprawled across it completely. Being quite close to Burma, we stopped at many check points. At one, the cop threw me a wink and a smile.

Mae Hong Song didn't impress much on first glance, and I began to regret not staying in Pai. Then we came to the lake, which became the focal point of the next couple days. We had a dinner and a breakfast beside it, and on the final morning, I sat on its shore to watch the sun appear behind the high peaks to the east.

The mountains ringing the town were spectacular, stretching over into Burma. We watched the sun drop there from the wat on the hill at the town's center. It seemed like half the town was circumambulating the chedi there, flowers in hand. A monk had climbed up and was unwrapping a piece of broad yellow cloth. Further up, a handful of monks were burning the forest, including the base of one large tree. Smoke form other fires were visible across the landscape, and by springtime, the whole thing would disappear.

We had gone into the mountains earlier in the day, to a long neck Karen village. It was composed of several dozen huts, maybe half having been converted into shops selling the textiles woven here. There was also a Catholic church built by the Koreans, as well as a small school. we spent a great deal of time at the latter, distracting the kids , to the obvious annoyance of the staff. In our party was an actual Korean school teacher, who stepped to the board to give a quick lesson. I always feel slightly uncomfortable in visiting villages, and here especially so. Half of me longed to stare and take photos, and half felt like I was gawking at the handicapped. The Thai government pays the Karen women good money to wear the neck rings, but they have no rights, and must return to their villages at night. Some of them have left the village to refugee camps at the border, populated by 15,000 people and increasing every day with those escaping the fighting across the border. The UN will relocate the lucky ones to European countries.

On the ride back to town, our driver told us that the tourist industry had yet to recover from the 2008 airport closures. He hoped that people will return in a few years. We saw very few, as we rounded out the day visiting Shan style temples done up as silver wedding cakes. The dull light inside the teak structure reflected lazily off the Buddhas.

One theme of our time in Mae Hong Song was a series of amazing meals. I had a wicked Shan curry at Mae Si Bua, followed by a coffee at a nearby cafe, as I perused a magazine about 1960's mods, wishing I could read the Thai characters. At the Salawan River Cafe, the dark interior was of a western saloon, emphasized further by Hank Williams on the speakers. Dogs snoozed in the doorways and Miki slumped against the wall like a pair of gunfighters.

On our final night, coming down the hill on a sunset walk, we found the whole town absolutely throbbing. The town was hosting a huge festival, so we moseyed on down to have a gander. It was more of a carnival, with games and rides. There were quite a few hilltribe people about, including some longneck Karen, who looked completely conspicuous in the crowds. One of them wore a hoody, to blend further. It really looked as if the entire population of Mae Hong Song was here. Most of those back in town were farang. Beside the lakeside wat, a few Thai people released paper lanterns into the sky, which rose to become yellow specks of light mingling with the crescent moon...


On the turntable: Hillstomp, "Darker the Night"

Life in Pai

January, 2010

...took an early minibus to Pai. As the road was quite curvy, none of the luggage could go on top, making for a very crowded ride. Miki and I had chosen seats well, and had a fair amount of space, but personal boundaries meant little as centrifugal forces thrust us against one another through all the turns. The Thai girl in front of us filled a veneer bag with the contents of her stomach.

Pai was a cute little town, very touristic. This had once been a backpack destination, but now fashionable middle-class Thais outnumbered the farang. It seems their numbers overtook that of the 2000 locals. Every single resident appeared to be involved in the tourist trade somehow, every structure in town being a hotel, cafe, or shop. Many of the latter had post boxes from which to send postcards, or those white cement milage signs seen on every Thai road. The town was blessed with natural scenery, of red dirt, and alpine peaks that looked a lot like New Mexico. The trees on those hills were the bare skeletal shapes of winter, but here in the valley all was warm and welcoming. The music overheard, plus the multiple flyers for yoga or similar hippie attractions had great appeal. This was a place that I could happily place a few happy weeks.

We had a stroll around town, taking all of an hour. There was nearly no traffic on the street, until you needed to cross, then a van or a bus would roar out of nowhere. It was my own private "Local Hero" moment. We wound up in hammocks overlooking the river, reading, and dozing. Kids splashed in the water, dodging the bamboo rafts ferrying Thai families downriver. There was a wat on a hill just outside town, but we couldn't be bothered to climb it, preferring instead the view from the hammock. For isn't doing nothing what this town is all about?

In late afternoon, we had a coffee in an adobe colored stucco cafe with colorful window frames that fueled further comparisons with New Mexico. Dinner riverside at sunset rounded out the day.

(Though not quite. Had a beer at an outdoor jazz cub that happened to be closed. The owner told me how Pai had built a bunch of new hotels for the increasing number of Thai tourists. Sadly, they never came...)

On the turntable: "A Dead Band's Party" (Various)

Lazing on a Chiang Mai Afternoon

January 2010

Awoke early for the bus to Chiang Mai. Shared a truck with a Swiss teacher who'd made a visa run to Laos. We discussed Thai politics and the expat situation here. This country is very strict on outsiders, apparently worse than Japan, which surprised me. We talked about Burma. He said that the current situation with the Thai king is frightening in that if the military takes over and takes a militaristic stance, it could become another Burma. That country, on the other hand, is slowly changing, prodded by China. The road up to Mengla will always stay open for the flow of goods into Thailand. When I mentioned my talk about Kengtung, he told me of a government clash with the Shan, the fighting going all the way to Tashilek. Some shells had accidentally fallen on Mae Sai, whose residents flew south. The world media had nary a word.

Our bus wound lazily through the hills into Chaing Mai. We spent about 2 1/2 hours at a cafe, reading and having coffee, then went exploring. We visited the city's oldest wat, then walked past the museum and the women's prison to Wat Singh. It was busy on this Sunday, people strolling the buildings, and under the trees that had pithy sayings strung to them. In the shade, and old car sat to be admired. A few blocks up was Chedi Luong, whose massive stone ruin hovered above all but one tree so tall it was out of proportion to the rest. The grounds were packed for the funeral of a famous, high ranking monk. Rows of chairs were lined between the pillars like in a Catholic cathedral. Men in white military uniforms patrolled around. The King's son was due to arrive for the actual funeral service the following day. Before the chedi was a two-story boat with a black elephant on the prow--the monk's vehicle to the next world. His life-like wax figure sat in a smaller boat nearby. The grounds were filled with tables offering free food. We walked and ate, walked and ate.

Out front, the Sunday market was just revving up. We walked a little but I was somewhat burned out. I can only take so much of markets. I did partake of a cheap massage, probably the best of the trip thus far. Afterward, there was a brief moment of panic when I couldn't find my cherish jade necklace, but it eventually turned up. We walked past the string orchestras sitting in the street, along the klong, and through a maze of soi to our room, the cheapest yet in Thailand, and the grottiest--cold water, mosquitos, broken windows. But the comfiest bed made for good sleep.

On the turntable: Van Halen, "Fair Warning"

On the turntable: Willa Cather, "Death Comes for the Archbishop"

Into Burma

January, 2010

...visa run back up to Mae Sai. After changing hotels, we caught the bus back north and slipped over the border. Immigration almost refused the fee, a crisp $20 folded in half, saying it was too old. Tachilek looked little different than the Thai side, only grubbier and less friendly. Our smiles weren't returned, except for one kid and an older man. The tuk-tuk drivers and street vendors were extremely aggresive, falling into step beside you, and not fucking off until the twentieth "No!" The cigarette sellers held up their cartons, thumbs cleverly concealing viagra of dubious effectiveness. The more permanent shops sold the usual tat-- clothes, tea, pirated DVDs. Men of all ages and trades walked around in longyi.

We walked gingerly along the busted concrete crumbling into open sewers. We found a wedding reception in progress, a Toyota out front done up in bows. Up the hill to a massive gold chedi. behind it, two dozen concrete monks formed a conga line behind the Buddha. Miki tried to snap a photo of some Lisu girls, but upon a shouted command from one girl, the rest fell into line behind her, out of camera range. This leader glared at Miki as she passed. The mountains in the distance were dotted with gold gumdrops. We had a goat curry in a grungy basement restaurant, which surprisingly sold Heineken. Then, back to Thailand.

In our truck was a Swiss guy with a guitar. He'd stayed in Burma for 14 days, hanging out with some musicians he'd met on a previous visit, and ringing in the Lisu new year. He said it was a drag to return to his hotel every night, as no private Burmese citizen can host a foreign guest.

Our bus rolled south to Chiang Rai. I was crammed into the seat behind the driver, sitting sideways with my knees straddling the engine block. A young girl was nearly between them, and my left knee was pressed into the flank of her overweight mother who was constantly shifting and fussing with her kids, giving me the feeling of kneeling on a waterbed. A hilltribe man behind me was leaning forward into the seat, obviously motion sick. His bony fingers pressed into my shoulders from his tight grip on the seat. The driver's wife constantly hopped on and off the bus with embarking and disembarking passengers. I wondered at a life spent hanging off a bus all day. We stopped at the drug checkpoint and for the only time out of six checks, I was asked to produce my passport. The cop swaggered down the bus in dark '70's cop shades, looking the baddass. I suppose you have to be a badass to shoot unarmed students and journalists.

Back in Chiang Rai, I changed money, had a quickie massage. On the way back, I watched a Frenchman penetrate the massage gauntlet, dismissing their siren-like calls with a simple tip of the hat. I eventually settled in with a coffee and a book on my patio at Baan Bua. Miki and I walked up to the Saturday night market, where finally got the checked kramas that we'd been searching for since Cambodia. There waas plenty of interesting food, but I was marketed out, so pushed through the old city walls to a place I'd noticed that advertised ravioli at 150 baht. the menu however quoted 250, so I gruffly told the owner that dishonesty was bad business, and walked out. A consolation prize was a Thai shrimp and chili pizza, washed down with a fine German pilsner, served up by a ladyboy waiter.


On the turntable: Treat Her Right, "Treat Her Right"