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"
...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"
No comments:
Post a Comment