Gary and Me

 

(This post is an addendum to what I wrote here.)

 
I'm sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair, waiting for Gary Snyder to appear. And he does, moving through the door right beside me. He looks older than I'd imagined, small and somewhat stooped. He's finally come into the look of the wizard, an image cultivated more for, than by, him.

And on stage, he's suddenly much taller, his movements more dextrous and grand. The 81-year old that I just saw walk through the door is gone. His energy is astounding, outlasting my own as the reading nears the ten o'clock hour. I'm tired, the baby's asleep. We need to get her to bed, as much as I'd like to stay after for the book signing and tell him a few things.

...I'd tell him, remind him, of the first time I met him, here at Naropa in the summer of 1994. I'd mentioned that I was bound for Japan in a month, and had asked if he could recommend any temples or hikes that he found particularly interesting. And he cut me dead with a curt, "I'm not a guide book." I backpedalled, and said, no no, just a hint at something that had inspired him during his long years there. And he again fired off a "I don't even know you." I was so disappointed that I didn't even ask him to sign the copy of "No Nature" that I held in my left hand.
I sat awhile on Boulder mall, justifying it for awhile; that he'd had a busy week, that I'd overheard many requests to him, that I had been like everyone else in wanting something from the man. But then suddenly I really got it. It was time to kill the Buddha; time to step out from behind my heroes. Gary, among others, had pointed the path out to me, but only I could walk it. And walk I did, down the darkened Boulder mall, and into my own life...

... I'd tell him of my friendship with Pachi and Yoko. The latter was my tea teacher in the 'Nog, a woman who had studied at Daitokuji while Gary had been there as a student of zen. At my first tea lesson with her, the other students had all sat quietly as Yoko Sensei and I had a long chat in English about him and their shared history...

...I'd tell him of my friendship with Uchida Bob, who I'd hosted when he played a gig in the 'Nog while US bombs were just beginning to fall on Afghanistan. The next morning, my now late son had sat in his lap. (Later, Ken never failed to recognize Bob's voice on the stereo.) Over coffee and pancakes, we talked of Gary, and of Nanao, and of the three communities they'd once created back when US bombs fell on other parts of Asia...

...I'd tell him of my friendships at Kyoto Journal, and of our mutual friends there. I'd tell him of how Iwakura Ken had commented on the blog post where I documented carrying my rucksack from Kyoto to the Sea of Japan, of a temporal crossing of paths...

...most of all, I'd introduce him to my daughter. Had he not served as a major catalyst for my moving to Japan, I'd have never met her mother, and this wonderful little girl would never have been born. Despite his claim of not knowing me, we both shared a responsibility in her creation...


On the turntable: DJ Food, "Kaleidoscope"
On the nighttable: "The Gary Snyder Reader"

Disjunct

Driving through industrial urban Hiroshima, Robert Earl Keen singing through the speakers. Just doesn't fit somehow...


On the turntable: Frank Black, "Los Angeles, 1993"

Sunday Papers: Buckminster Fuller

"There is no energy crisis, only a crisis of ignorance."


On the turntable: Beastie Boys, "Check your Head"

Reanimation

The flow of water. Trees towering from rock. Smoothly planed tree trunks shoring up the walls. It took little more than this for a certain peace to sink in, for shoulders to lower themselves from the altitude of ears.

I was sipping an iced coffee at Ishii Coffee shop, Miki and Sora at my side. We'd driven up into the hills so as to allow Miki some driving practice before she chances roads driven on the other side. And here I was in the Japanese mountains again, after an absence of 2 years.

There were mountains closer to where we were staying down in town. A few of the high, wild looking peaks that flank the Seto Naikai were a short walk away. Mt. Misen and some of her entourage rose just across the water, filling up most of my bedroom window. The sea that lapped her toes was a few blocks over. But between them and I were rows and rows of identical gray industrial storage facilities. And while they were an assault on the eyes, the ears too were similarly besieged, here in this house wedged between a train line and the busy Route 2.

Thus our drive up though Saiki-cho was such a delight, winding along narrow roads lined with beauty. Miki and I had just passed the better part of week looking for the ideal place to live, and here, a mere half hour from her mom's place, we found it, though we had by then already committed to a return to Kyoto.

And it wasn't even the first time I'd been in the countryside, having returned to Japan two weeks earlier. There had been a couple days spent down in Kunisaki Peninsula, where I'd hammered out the details of my new employment with Walk Japan. And there was that lunch at Cafe Millet, where we popped in to surprise friends, and were in turn rewarded by a nice lunch, and the promise to resume our workshops up there. But at that time I'd been too preoccupied to sink into the peace, too burdened by the enormous task of resuscitating a former life.

House hunting had been the biggest. While still in America, we were determined to settle on some land in the countryside somewhere. I'd chosen the Kibi region of Okayama, centrally located and within a two hour trip to Yonago, Kyoto, and Miki's family in Hiroshima. Kibi had always resonated with me spiritually, as a powerful place dotted with ancient wonders. I looked forward to wandering her hills, and to exploring the hundreds of islands of the Inland Sea. But reality thwarted us, finding that a century of hyper-modernization had scarred all but the most sacred ground. The houses we looked at were uninspiring, the villages overbuilt and unappealing. In the midst of this, we received word that a couple of Kyoto acquaintances were leaving, their houses coming free. So we drove that way, still stubbornly determined not to live there again. But a few phone calls, a few meetings, and we began to be seduced again by our community. A friend mentioned an available house up in Kumogahata, a possible best of both worlds scenario: a country life lived a half hour from town. The house was beautiful, the rent cheap. But it also needed work, a less than ideal proposition from a renter's perspective. It seemed the final hint toward a gradual realization, that to create an comfy country life is an all or nothing proposition. You must buy, not rent. A dance of two steps, one requiring time and patience. Eventually, we'll find it, but we needed digs soon. Then the real estate guy mentioned that he had another house to show, and it will become our new home, that restored machiya near Daitokuji.

And so it goes...


On the turntable: The Stone Roses, "The Complete Stone Roses"
On the nighttable: William Least-Heat Moon, "River Horse"

Sunday Papers: Thornton Wilde

"If we shrink from platitudes, platitudes will shrink from us."


On the turntable: Heart, "Greatest Hits Live"

Sunday Papers: Haruki Murakami

"When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in."


On the turntable: Jane's Addiction, "Jane's Addiction"

Bangkok Final Days

January 2010

...awake to the Ayuthaya ruins at dawn. The train is 2 1/2 hours late in arriving. At one of the main stops, I watch a dog walk along an adjoining rail. Later, a motorcycle cop avoids traffic by riding up the sidewalk. A man balances precariously on a stack of cardboard boxes in the back of a truck. A cat too, balances precariously as her owner rides a bicycle. On the train, a group of young backpackers are bitching loudly, rightly so I suppose, but I wish they'd look out the window at the passing slums we're passing to get some perspective.

We stay near the river off Khao San Road, landing a room on the 5th attempt. It's a surprisingly clean and quiet place.

We take a klong taxi to Jim Thompson's house. It is a wet, noisy ride, with twin sheets of plastic obstructing the view of dilapidated houses overhanging the filthy water. Thompson's place is amazing, the red teak containing gorgeous art. It inspires me toward something like this, the beauty and sentimentality of simpler times. I find myself mourning the loss of our own Kyoto home.

Later we meet Dew and Pom. We can't find the restaurant they want (Naturally. Pom has gotten us lost everywhere we've gone. Hard to believe he's a pilot.), so we take a cab to a small busy place of 100 year's history. Next door we have dessert at a place that Pom tells me is called 'Magic Milk,' though Dew keeps laughing as he says this. It is crazy busy, one of the most popular joints in the city. And they sell only one thing -- toast. It is incredibly noisy with talk, the roar reminding me of the gathering places of Hong Kong's Filipina maids on their days off...

... at dawn the next day, I get breakfast at a 24 hour place, watching tired backpackers arrive, fresh off the plane. And it the very same airport that is our next destination. It is my first visit to the new airport, this bizarre structure that looks like it is draped in panties. (I have a strong memory of the old airport, where I once was startled by how tall Peter Garrett was, as I watched him move slowly through the terminal.) On board, the flight instructions are right out of the '70s. We transit for a few hours in Kuala Lumpur but see nothing but the airport, with its square toilets, indoor jungle, and tasty food. I still don't understand the sign 'reverse airport water security.'

Then awake in Osaka. We spend a single day in Kyoto, and leave again in the rain, the weight of the water not nearly as heavy as my heart, as our bus passes historical sites that bore witness to scenes of my own history. Then another red-eye drops into SFO, where a car awaits us...


On the turntable: Joy Division, "Unknown Pleasures"

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"

Rai and the Sky

January 15, 2010

...we awoke before dawn to catch the morning market. Over a breakfast of Chinese frybread and hot soymilk we watched the hill people sell their textiles and jewelry. A couple of old monks were on their begging rounds. I waved over a couple of guys I'd seen yesterday, one Japanese and one American. I'd noticed them when they'd arrived since the girl they were traveling with had quickly jumped atop their song taa-ou to get the bags, swinging up one sexy bare leg for leverage.

At 7:30, we climbed into our own song taa-ou with three hairdressers from Bangkok. Our truck twisted and weaved back down the mountain. A gate like a torii arch was an obvious hint of an Akha village below. I smiled at a nearby sign written with, "Agro Tourist Bureau." We stopped at an army checkpoint, its soldiers on the lookout for drugs. Men in uniform were huddled around a pot cooking rice. One soldier strode across the grounds, and I noticed one of the hairdressers nudge another. Miki and I went to see what the soldiers were eating, and they offered us each a rice ball dipped in chili sauce. It was the best rice of the trip. I looked up to notice the hairdressers giggling and filming us from the truck.

We drove for the next hour, picking up passengers along the way. By the time we stopped we had 10 aboard, plus 2 infants. Our connecting truck wasn't carrying quite as many passengers, but was cramped nonetheless. It let us out in Chiang Rai, near Wat Jet Yot, where we grabbed a cheap room at Orchid Guest House. We walked over to Orn bookshop, housed on the second floor of a quiet suburban home. Its layout and stock would rival any used bookstore in a comparably sized college town. After popping into the wat, we walked through town to a restaurant on the western edge, reputed to be the best local food in town. Nothing on the menu appealed, so we ate instead in a quaint cafe nearby. We continued our ramble, no plan in mind.

Near the river, we ran into Thom, a Frenchman we had met in Chiang Saen while we had been sitting in the street waiting for our ride north. He'd invited us to his home to stay, but as his village was 25 km out of town, we begged off. (We were to meet him yet again in front of a bar.) We passed the vocational college, the streets filled with girls in their school uniforms, which included long, hip-hugging sarongs. Nearby was the hilltribe museum, a simple yet informative intro to the subject. A group of tourists there were in the final preparations before setting off on a trek.

After a quick coffee at Cabbages and Condoms downstairs, we walked over to Wat Singh, with its beautifully carved doors and puzzling murals of Krishna. Outside, two cyclo drivers napped in their machines. Down the street we saw a man looking through a broken piece of glass burned black. I suddenly remembered the eclipse. He gave us a peek, the sun with a large chunk bitten out. By the time we got to Wat Phra Kaew, the sky was dimming as if a thunderstorm was rolling in. The temple grounds were lush and shaded, the buildings masterpieces of reddish wood and overlapping roofs. The pieces in the museum were wonderful, and I appreciated the fact that it was free. The real gem was the jade Buddha, housed in a lovely building that had a massive and apparently ancient turtle in its pond. The Buddha itself was magical in the way it captured the green light.

We zigzagged around town, occasionally looking up at the eclipse through my sunglasses lenses smeared with Tiger Balm. Later, I saw a well decorated truck with a half dozen people in the back, driving slowly past the market, speaker blaring, "The end is near! The end is near!" Past the mosque, through the market, and back to the tourist ghetto of Wat Jet Yot.

Miki and I split up, me in search of an imported beer after seeing two Germans enjoying a Weitzen earlier in the day. Afterward, I compared prices at the massage parlors around. In front of one, a sexy middle-aged woman took my arm and tried to pull me inside. Based on how she and the others were (barely) dressed, I suppose they have a more extensive repertoire than the others.

Later, we went to the night market. The food stalls were built around a large courtyard filled with plastic tables and chairs. Over food and a beer, it was a pleasant way to pass a warm summer night in January, under perfect weather. On stage, a musician was playing music that was vaguely Hawai'ian. He was later joined by a second guitarist and a drummer, the latter over-miked and playing a monotonous rhythm on congas with sticks. The singer's way of singing in his native Thai made it sound like the mic had a short. Between sets, a half dozen girls danced in a trad style, their hand swirling and turning to hypnotize, lulling us into peaceful warm places of our own making...


On the turntable: Deep Purple, "Purple Passages"
On the nighttable: Oliver La Farge, Laughing Boy"

Mae Salong

January 14, 2010

We met a former Thai Air Force officer in a song taa-ou that took us to the bus. The bus, a rickety affair, dropped us at the T-junction in Ban Basang. There were a few song taa-ou there, but none would move until they got 8 passengers. We waited 30 minutes, but no one else showed up. We tried to haggle a price for a private ride, but they pulled out a piece of paper (English only, of course) claiming that they had 'set rates.' I walked to the street to hitch a ride, and the rates became unset immediately.

The road weaved and wound as it climbed to a ridgeline, following it through villages and small towns. In Mae Salong, we grabbed a bungalow and had lunch. From our table, I noted the Thai flags running up the main street, a reminder of who was in charge here, despite the overt Chinese feel. I'd noted similar flags on the border towns of Chian Saen and Mae Sai. There sems to be a strong nationalistic streak running through the Thai gut. In Laos, I rarely saw any flags, subverting the usual chest thumping at which socialist states are so adept. The flags waving throughout Thailand were a constant reminder of whose soil you were on.

We followed the ridge out to the marketplace. Akha and Risa were decked out in their finest, selling silver and textiles, not a word of English pushed past their teeth black with betel. The town's Chinese residents sold tea in more permanent shops standing behind them.

We walked up a road to the tomb of an old KMT general who had led his defeated band here in 1949. The trail became overgrown and laden with leaves, so i grabbed a large stick and tapped the path like a blind man, hoping to scare any poisonous critters away. The trail became paved again at a series of bungalows that were quite the thing 20 years ago. The style of the buildings and the grounds were quite Chinese. The trail led to a set of 718 steps that led to a temple. We arrived sweaty and out of breath at the top to find a young man teasing a dog. Not viciously, but causing it to yelp and snarl. I stared at the man, and he made a gesture with his hand like, "What? Go away!" I said, "You know, that dog is smarter than you, man," which made a woman sitting nearby laugh. We had a short stand-off, Miki and I calling him an idiot, and him glaring, but at least he stopped harassing the dog. Miki and I went into the temple, then heard another yelp. Back outside, I wanted to get the dog away from him, but saw that he wasn't making any contact with the animal, who was now asleep at his feet. Nothing I could do about that.

The view from atop the temple was incredible, with the town stretching away down the ridge, rows of tea climbing the sides. It was Chinese as touted, but was lacking in trash and squat squares of concrete. If only all China could match this. It was more like North Vietnam to me. On the way down we found a smiley, chatty monk sweeping the front walk to his temple with a three meter bamboo broom. Five minutes with him restore my faith in humanity.

We read the afternoon away on the porch of our bungalow, then walked the ridgetop main road through town. Midway down he road was a teahouse, Chinese in look, but made of dark teak, lit by candles. The entire back wall was open to reveal houses on the opposite hillside behind. A wonderful place to read awhile and soak up the view, but unfortunately, closing for the night. Our eventual destination was the Mae Salong Villa and dinner. We sat on the veranda, eating Yunnanese food recommended by the owner. the meal was good if pricey, and tainted somewhat by the owner checking on us every five minutes. Hardly her fault, since we were the only customers at that early hour. Below us, the valley and the villages hanging on the mountainscape disappeared into night...


On the turntable: Blue Oyster Cult, "On your Feet or on Your Knees"

To the Line

I walked the dawn streets looking for a place to have breakfast, filing past begging monks. Nothing was open, so I had to satisfy myself with buying bread and coffee at 7-11. I sat eating them on the banks of the Mekong. The sun was just coming out of the Lao jungle, shimmering across the river to me. I took my time here. We'd passed the better part of a week on or beside its waters, and today we'd say goodbye.

An obviously gay couple walked by, the third I'd seen in this small town. Chiang Saen must be on the gay and lesbian travel circuit. There were also some trucks vying to ruin my peaceful morning with their speakers -- one for a group called "Miracle of Life." At eight o'clock sharp, the national anthem came on and moved me along.

We flagged a passing song taa-ou for the ride north. The Golden Triangle refers to this entire area, but the town of Solp Ruak had adopted the name since it sits on the western bank of the Mekong where Thailand, Laos, and Burma come together. I'd debated a quick stop here, but the town was ugly and quite touristy, so was satisfied simply with this quick peek from the back of the truck. We began to take on more passengers now, including a few village folk, three monks, and a Burmese girl with a cosmetic of ground bark on her cheeks who was eating nuts and throwing the shells out onto the road behind us.

Mae Sai wasn't much to look at, but it certainly was bustling. I love borders and I love market towns and this town had all the best qualities of both. A real dream for people watching. Besides the obligatory Chinese, there were the broad faces of Burmese, and the dark skins of those from further west. Tribal people added color in headgear and dress. A few of them were topped with steep-pitched conical hats, balancing baskets filled with nuts across their shoulders. Dozens of vendors roasted chestnuts. I saw more thanaka, that ground bark paste on faces, especially on the cheeks of poor kids who'd come up to me with hands outstretched upon seeing my white skin. One street kid slept in the doorway of the Thai Airlines office. We walked through the cavernous Chinese market, then down the main drag with its money exchange, gold sellers, and gem shops. In one flashy cafe, three monks sipped coffee. Border guards toting M-16s strolled around looking tough. Atop the hill was Wat Phra That Doi Wau, offering excellent views into Burma. It all looked like one continuous city from up here, except that Burma had quieter streets. Near the wat was a large steel scorpion, supposedly the biggest in Thailand. I still don't know why.

We had lunch at a Burmese Muslim place, hidden down a side alley, which did a good biryani and a nice noodle soup. Later, we did an internet time out, at a shop run by a friendly Burmese guy who spoke quite good Japanese. He'd been here 20 years and told us that the economy here was dying, the death knell being Thailand's decision to change visas from 30 to 15 days. I asked him about travel in Burma, and he suggested I ask at the border.

We were toying with the idea of a trip up to Kengtung, as a kind of visa run, arriving back in Thailand with a new 15 day visa, which would carry us to the day of our flight back to Japan. I approached immigration and asked the woman there about doing a day trip. She was really funny and friendly and told me to simply walk across the border and ask. I gave her my passport and did just that. There were quite a few people sitting on the bridge, including more begging kids. Where did they belong? From here, I could see how close the buildings on both sides were. With a running start and some courage, a person could jump from the rooftop of one country to the next. On the Burmese side, a cop sat in a plastic chair reading a paper in the middle of the road, cars passing on both sides. Vehicles did a do-se-do into the opposite lane. I entered the Burmese immigration office and asked my question. A guy at a desk gestured to a guard who led me into Burma. Inside the tourist office, I found a man writing something on a piece of paper. I asked him if the road to Kengtung was open, and his answer was what was written on the paper: "The military allows people to go to Kengtung only with a guard." I pointed at the paper, and asked, "Hey, are you studying English?" He said, "Yes," and we both laughed. The military. So the situation wasn't political, but some type of unrest. The officer told me that we could take the bus, at a cheaper price that I'd thought. But we'd have to pay the expenses of the guard --salary, room, transport, etc. I thanked him, nodded to my guard, and walked back to Thailand. There was a brief moment of tension when I couldn't present my permit to cross the border, but that was cleared up with a phone call. My five minute foray into Burma ended without incident. I was amazed how relaxed and playful everyone was, far removed from the tense border I'd heard about.

Miki and I spent the rest of the day at Mae Sai Guest House, a group of bungalows on the river. They were perhaps the nicest lodgings of the trip -- walls and floors of woven bamboo with good light and strong hot water. We sat on the veranda and looked at Burma 10 meters away across the river. It felt like nosily spying on neighbors. Life there didn't seem so different from over here. The family 'next door' was busy cleaning its garden. I was annoyed with the way that the patriarch would toss veneer trash bags over the wall into the water. It was funny to see his dog eating the same trash, then be called to be fed up above. A large snake swam from Thailand to the Burmese shore, then returned again. Didn't have the correct visa, I guess.

After dark, dogs on both sides of the border began barking at one another. A drum beat from somewhere off in the hills. From the Burmese side came the sound of voices. Two or three times, the crack of gunfire made me wish I'd paid attention to the design of our bungalow's roof...


On the turntable: Van Halen, "Fair Warning"
On the nighttable: Wiliam Eastlake, "Lyric of the Circle Heart"

Happy New Year!

Thar be Dragons!

East...



West...



And in those places between...

A Lad in Saen

January 13, 2010


The dawn light was still gray as we climbed the steep stairs of Wat Jom Khao. The temple hall was decorated with paintings of Buddhist lore--most of them quite surreal. The male figures had the cheesy mustaches of a silent film villain, and the Buddha himself was quite ugly, his face old and out of proportion. Beside the temple was a low squat tower. From this hilltop, we could watch the sun rise behind the old French fort, watch the light take hold in Thailand across the water.

Back down the hill, the monks were finishing their final alms rounds. About a dozen women were kneeling in the street. Upon a certain verbal cue in the monks chant, they all simultaneously began to pour water from soft, shapely vessels.

Miki and I hustled up our own breakfast, then walked down a slope to the Mekong that served as the border. We were processed out of Laos and jumped into a waiting pirogue to make the crossing. It was ridiculous how easy it all was, how casual everyone was. Infected with this spirit I tried to talk the woman at Thai immigration into giving us 18 day visas rather than the usual 15. She seemed to go for it, until an official little man in a starched brown uniform popped his head in the window and explained (politely, but slightly aggressively) how to pay the overstay fee. Fifteen days it was.

We took a song taa-ou, following the Mekong to Chiang Saen. we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the quiet little town, past the old ruins which were much like those in Ayuthaya, usually a broad platform of raised brick, with a few chedi or a seated Buddha at the end. Unlike the segregation of the ruins into parks as at the old capital, here the town had been built to encompass them, houses and shops constructed right up to the leaf-covered grounds. Three of the old city walls remained, the fourth having crumbled into the Mekong long ago. We walked the north wall, under large trees growing through gaps in the brick.

The waterfront was lined completely with Chinese boats, their crews loading them with various goods. We watched one group carrying 5 cases of Red Bull, holding a chopstick in one hand which the foreman would take as a means of keeping count.

We spent the better part of the day at Wat Chedi Leung. The chedi is --was-- massive and furry with weeds. There was a variation on the broken platform theme in that this one had had a roof built over it to protect the large gold Buddhas it housed. A group of monks from Chiang Rai came and filled the floor with their orange forms. Two guys had unmistakable gang tattoos, and one was probably a ladyboy, very delicate in face and gesture. I found myself wondering why, if they didn't take food after noon, were so many so fat? After a brief chant, they were off again, filing in pairs through gaps in the ruins. The head monk came and found us, a nice young man of 24, who seemed eager to practice his English. Such a dichotomy, this young guy overseeing such an ancient site. Adjacent to the main hall was a small outdoor cafe called 'Heaven on Earth.' It did have a semblance of such, with thoughtfully arranged flowers, colorful art, and comfy chairs in which to pass a couple of hours.

We had a massage while the light faded, followed by a simple meal by the river. Then began the worst night of the entire trip. Our quiet, peaceful bungalow by day became the center of the party by night. Voices drifted from the vendors across the street, eventually drowned out by the thump of 3 or 4 competing sound systems. Our pipes must've backed up at some point for the air in the room became thick with the reek of raw sewage. No, I don't believe I can recommend the Chiang Saen Guest House...


On the turntable: Nirvana, "Bleach"
On the nighttable: John Nichols, "On the Mesa"

Mekong, Upriver

January 12, 2009

...we made our way down the dusty hill to where the slow boats were moored. The trip upriver to Huay Xai was touted to be 5 -6 hours, but it took us 9 1/2. Such is Lao Time. I felt sorry for those trying to cross into Thailand as we docked just 5 minutes before the immigration post closed. But this was the way I had intended to pass the day, and it was heaven to drift quietly up the Mekong, watching the mountains drop away into jungle. Our boat had long, ornately carved rails, between which soft bus seats were laid in rows to pamper spoiled white asses. The passengers were all European at first, including a French woman who seemed unable to sit still for 5 seconds. As we continued upriver, the pilot stopped about a dozen times for locals who stood on the high rock crop banks waving shirts. We stopped at one village that had a market right on the bank, and seemed to be selling nothing but T-shirts. Nearby, a couple sat eating in their pirogue, clearly embarrassed to be the subject of every one's photos.

Our pilot steered us past the low jungled hills, past the shores of rock and sand. The rocks had been carved during rainy season in a pattern that was almost purposeful, methodical. He used a proper captain's wheel, unlike the single bamboo shafts attached to the afts of the pirogues. Both his steering house and the bow contained small altars, the latter more ornate, its joss sticks lit before launching. On board, an old woman sat with her three granddaughters, none of whom moved for the entire trip. The woman seemed to have knee trouble, and was asking the French bata-bata butterfly for treatment. Again, interesting how Europeans are seen as a source of medical treatment. A Frenchman sitting nearby rubbed some sort of salve into the afflicted joint. I watched all of this to the soundtrack of my iPod, listening mostly to '60s stuff, and slightly chagrined that the "Oldies" setting now includes music from my college days.

We reached Huay Xai at dusk and grabbed a room. The owner was a gorgeous woman in her '50s, with the glamour and dress of a beauty queen. There were photos of her in her younger day, resembling two daughters well represented in the adjoining photos. Clearly brought up with great expectations, I wondered how they felt about waiting on and cooking for tourists.

We walked up the main street, taking all of 5 minutes. It was all very Thai, even on this side of the river. At the base of the long steps leading up to the Wat, a man whispered hello from the shadows of the naga's head, a clear attempt to sell drugs. We ignored him and found a restaurant on a deck overlooking the Mekong, the sun's final act being to accent the purple hills with pink. A Korean girl sat behind us, filling out her journal, and across the room, a man sat at a keyboard, his crooning being a vast improvement over the previous BGM of bad pop songs. As the Xmas lights came on, Miki and I raised our final toast with Beer Lao...


On the turntable: Genesis, "Plays Live"