Early November, 2005 The first thing I noticed was the heat. Kyoto grows cold these days, and though it ebbs and flows I know the flowing comes faster (ain’t I smart?). A frost nearly froze a few days ago. I’m shivering approaching Osaka airport, dressed in my best imitation of a compromise. Then came Bangkok. Stepping off down the stairs to the tarmac – perhaps with an assist from the jet engine by my head – I realized this was no compromise. My vest itself sweat. Note for the future: don’t be two things, just choose what to be. The second thing I noticed was the smell. Not a bad one – a buttery curry one. Immediate memories flooded me – smell is perhaps my strongest trigger – but how such a scent could penetrate deep into the cement waste of a landing strip I struggled with. It was near midnight, so it’s not like it was mealtime either. I guess someone’s break was late. We all boarded a bus that took us through the bowels of the airport. Finally, I got to see what the backside of luggage conveyor belts look like (exactly the same as the front, but outside and bored). Of course I was traveling, so I don’t let little instances of randomness pass randomly; I’ll find meaning in it all, even if I have to make it up. So that transport was meaningful – Bangkok is a dirty town. You see the underbelly of everything. Grime lines the streets, there’s a lackadaisical Latin attitude to order (live in the jungle and you’ll understand). Yet that carries pluses as well. Pretense, for one, falls apart. People are real – the reality of this place is gripping. It makes me want to strip off every extraneous article and whoop like an animal that loves its whoops. That’s Bangkok. It’s filthy and full, disgustingly delightful, a land of realization in its great contrasts (which we haven’t even begun to touch). And above it all floats life force curry spice.
After 45 minutes of airport bus service brings me to Khao San I wander the streets in search of sleep. I’m not tired, that’s not it; I won’t get tired, but I respect drowsiness. Amy I met on the bus and I’m showing her the way to a Lonely Planet guesthouse I crashed at last time I was here. It’s full; in fact, everything is full. Khao San is jumping – I forgot during the plane ride I arrived on Halloween, but the eyes bleeding cranberry juice and skeletons clinking the streets remind me, big party. I question my choice of sleep, but the weight of baggage drives me onward. Finally after my favorite hostels and all the newish ones prove fruitless, I try every building. Only availability is twins, and although Amy is wisely suspicious of splitting a room with a strange man, we soon realize there isn’t a choice. The place is severely Spartan – two beds, each with an under sheet and pillow, one fan. Nothing else. We go for a 1 o’clock nightcap and chat. Talk ranges from love of backpacking and backpackers to revulsion at the implied hierarchy of that world (and how long have YOU been on the road?). We share tales and tips, learn a bit of each other’s life. She relaxes into trust and shares sexual predator experiences. I give Japanese cigarettes to the staff and try to spy lizards creeping the walls (it excites me). Two drinks and then drifting to dreams against the backdrop of cocks endlessly competing in their caws, occasional choruses of city-wide dog howls.
Next day after my shower I dry myself by fan and leave for the palace. That place – it’s the definition of Thailand postcards. Foreigners who wore shorts wander in sarongs (dress code with enforced lending). Everything is present – bell-shaped pagodas bathed in gold, deities guarding doors, cascading tiled roofs, group prayer and meditation, solo meditation on crowded floors admiring the Emerald Buddha (made of jade). You’d think the army with their machine guns would break the scene, but it fits in a strange way; they are the fierce deities brought to modern life. I spend plenty of time there. After I sidle along strange sidewalks, find the places without white faces. Traveling amongst travelers is fine, and tourist spots are often famed for a decent reason, but the truth of things lies far from that. Last time I found a food market that blew my mind, walking fish escaping tubs and being chased down paths, scents I never smelled before nor since, and people friendly – not wanting anything, just enjoying the company of an off-track farang (foreigner: literally, Frenchman). The markets I find this time aren’t like that at all – they are frenetic places of near-brand activity, flooded by white-bloused black-skirted college girls (the boys don’t seem to have a uniform) and middle-aged men searching out appropriate little Buddhas to protect them. Psychics and masseurs occupy the shops, and the streets themselves are crowded with tables and linens lined by knick-knacks, t-shirts and crap. Eventually I come to the river and – reentering a tourist zone – I’m bombarded by offers to take a boat ride. Now understand, I write. It’s what I am – not just what I do – and as such I believe you’ve gotta experience it all. With that in mind – and knowing I’m expected to write all about this place – I’m going to do everything. So I’ve already decided to take a boat trip. That is a poor place to negotiate from. I knock the original asking price down about 25%, but upon boarding I learn the French couple paid only slightly more for the two of them. Ah well, can’t be too worried about price – unless you’re talking about a big ticket item, you shouldn’t get worked up over the small dollar differences in the slighter purchases. I remember one time in Hungary I bought something minor from a shop, and I noticed they short-changed me. I didn’t mention it because the difference was less than a cent, but when I returned and got something larger – and they tried to rip me for around ten bucks – I called them on it and the owner instructed the clerk not to argue. Lose battles to win wars. Other than that, it was a good shop. Anyway, boat tours are usually a great way to get the geography of a city, but Bangkok is different. The place is so huge, the waterways so plentiful, and the planning so haphazard that you have a tough time getting much of a grip. Sure, I know the basics of where the river is, various neighborhoods and the such, but if you dropped me in the middle of a Bangkok street without a map and gave me a destination, I’d take a looooong time getting there. And I’m decent with directions. It’s a little frustrating. Still, the boat tour is a good thing – you can see various temples and architecture, yes, but more interesting are the stilted homes falling into canals and the large patches of unclaimed jungle. Children swim in water I’m afeared to touch, locals fish the canals, entrepreneurs sell beer and barbeques from their floating markets, floating boats. Residents sit on floating verandas and unfailingly wave with a smile on their face as we pass. And these people probably see 50 boats a day – you’d think they were getting paid. Off the boat thru the markets again – I refuse all the offers of amulets until a vendor runs down the street after me and hands over a small sandstone block with the Buddha imprinted on it. “Take it, free free! It is for luck, keep in my pocket, it protect you. Good good.” And before I can figure out if this is to lead to some scam, just have I remembered thank you in Thai when he’s gone. He ran around 100 meters from his stand, left it alone with his neighbors and dashed thru the solid humidity to give me a gift of protection. This too is Thailand, and in sharp contrast to the often shady cons run by those surrounding the tourist industry. Soon enough I find myself in front of the National Museum, and there three middle-aged men sit, drinking beer and eating snacks. They beckon to me – I wonder what this is about. They offer me a beer and a seat – I take both. One – Elifan, approximately – speaks very good English. He works at the museum and is excited to practice his language skills with me. Another – Buai I believe, which means loser or last I’m told – also speaks a bit of English, and is another museum worker. The third – I Chiang – speaks next to none, and the others kid him because he’s from the northeast and half the time they can’t understand his Thai. He’s a tuk-tuk driver. A fourth arrives, another driver with a smidge more English – Supajon, or Supa-Jon, what a name. These guys range from 30 to 45 and are extremely friendly. They teach me Thai – focusing on the racy phrases, like “You’re so beautiful” (Sue ma kav) and the such. We talk about their families – Buai is very proud of being 44 with a 27 year old wife – and their daily lives. The sun sets. I contribute to the next beer run. We eat a fried fish paste takeout dish covered in chili sauce, with cucumbers. Buzzes increase, cigarettes are shared, I talk to Buai’s wife on the phone. He invites me back to his house for more drinking and a meal. I turn him down cold. You don’t know me very well, do you? His house is large by Japanese standards, small by American, and run down by both. He has the traditional toilet – a porcelain hole in the ground with a bucket of water beside it used for cleaning (yourself) and flushing. The floor is of course soaking, since the shower and toilet are one and the same. Hotels often have private bathrooms complete with toilet paper (disposed of in a trashcan by the side), but most Thai people share these porcelain holes with their neighbors – no t.p. and no moving parts, just the bucket and a water scoop. I’m not a fastidious guy, but these toilets get to me after a time. The whole cleaning with water thing, no way to dry and in a humid country… plus no soap, no hand washing… this, by the way, is why tradition says you don’t touch each other with your left hand in Thailand, that’s the scrubbing hand… I dunno, maybe I’m more fastidious than I think. The living quarter is devoid of furniture, but has clothing heaped and hanging everywhere – it looks like a theater’s costume room. Behind a partial wall is his bedroom, presumably shared by Buai, his wife, her mother, and their two children. Mom is not happy to have a farang in the house, as her dour silence suggests. Wife is fine with it, and the older child – 5 years – is downright scared of me until I start my patented funny-face-with-pulling-strings routine that works on almost all children short of 10. She switches to fascination. We eat spicy spicy Thai food, they feed me peppers for the fun of it, I refuse the rice –still trying to steer clear of carbs at this point – and struggle with my foot knuckles pressing against the hardwood floor. Luckily, drunkenness has a charming way about it that reduces discomforts, so soon I barely notice my unpadded ground seat. Mom warms up a bit over the course of our feast as I try again and again to make use of the few words and phrases I know. Nothing better for winning over a foreign crowd than giving a sincere language effort – and producing unending unintentional comic gold. (“Can you say ‘Sue’ for food?” “O ho ho ha (beer out the nose) phwa (cough cough breathe) hee… no you can’t my funny little creature. But please, say it to my wife. She’s 27 you know.”) As our meal winds down everyone agrees Chiang should drive me around in his tuk-tuk tomorrow. He quotes quite a high hourly rate – Elifan looks momentarily surprised – and although I know I should bargain and argue, I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s been such a pleasant genuine evening I don’t want the tourist’s haggling specter to intrude. Besides, I figure while I’ll pay more than I need to, at least I won’t have to deal with a driver that insists on making tons of shopping stops. Just the sights tomorrow.
Oh, what a mistake.
When nine comes I’m finishing up my continental breakfast (surprisingly, the eggs were good, the fruit bad) and out the door. Chiang is supposed to take me to the National Museum first, for the once-a-day 9:30 English tour. Instead, we stop under a highway – the scene is something like months after a bombing and subsequent abandonment: scraps of everything scattered about, wild grasses growing behind tattered fences, alleys potted all to hell and three-legged dogs nervously sniffing for gold. Above the low hum of constant traffic. Chiang goes to a small stand and returns to the tuk-tuk with two cans of beer and a pack of cigarettes. I immediately see this day isn’t going to be what I expected. I tell him we’ve gotta hurry to get to the museum for the tour, but he doesn’t understand. He keeps saying with broken English no worry, six, close at six, and I check his watch (I’ve been without one for a long time now) and see it’s 9:30 already. No tour. Oh well, relax into the nature of the place, I say. Sometimes to go for a good ride you have to allow yourself to be taken for one, and as long as there’s no danger I’m fine with that. So the day won’t be what I expected. I can deal – in fact, I relish it. As we sit in the tuk-tuk sipping our beers Chiang says he wants to take me to a few shops – drivers get coupons for gas whenever they bring tourists to tailors, jewelry shops, occasionally restaurants. So our little tour will get longer – ah, mai pen rai (never mind, no problem – the mantra of Thailand). I had planned to do a little shopping anyway. First is a jewelry store, one I know from study to be good. Not cheap, but you aren’t going to be ripped off with “diamonds” and “gold” either. I was going to get something for my girlfriend anyway, so I get it here. They make a point of the International Certificate of Authenticity for the stones and gold I buy. Many places in Thailand use a national or other kind of certificate – which might allow gold plate to pass for pure gold, as an example. Take care. Next is the National Museum, full of history and Royal collections. Some of the stuff is really quite amazing – entire wings of palanquins, ivory carved in the most creative ways. A stunning place. In there I meet a group of Japanese studying to be tour guides. Oddly, none of them speak either Thai or English. Forever stunned to hear a foreigner speak their language – even more so outside Japan – we have a nice conversation and I learn a few tidbits about the place. Next, a tailor. Clothes that fit a Western frame are hard to come by in Asia, so custom-made silk shirts for around $25 are quite a blessing. That’s enough shopping for me. Following this comes two temples I visited on my previous trip, but worth seeing again. One contains the standing Buddha – all gold, about 50 meters high, his toes bigger than your head. I love this guy, but it’s strange seeing the hovels hovering just outside the manicured lawn of the temple. Plenty of trinkets and charms are available to appeal to gullible tourist and religious Thai alike. Small birds kept in cages can be set free in front of the Buddha for 100 baht – they’re trained to return home later. Old women make flower necklaces which bring protection and luck – in my two days with Chiang he bought three for his tuk-tuk. Golden-robed monks meander the premises or deliver blessings to those who ask (donations encouraged). Some monks are quite young – I get in a lively limited conversation with a few teenage boys, their robes billowing out in excitement as they dance-walk with me practicing English. That’s another interesting thing – the entire life of monks. Many make it a full-time thing, but just as many join for a bit of time. Sometimes you meet a Thai who, say, had a drinking problem so he joined an order for a month and cleaned himself up. More than a few Westerners come for monastic stays of anything from a week to a lifetime. All are welcome, and expectations are entirely of your own making. Another tailor shop and another temple, this one with the reclining Buddha. Here I meet one of the peculiar Thai forms of scam/advertising. Men are hired by shops to pose as local businessmen coming for a cathartic stroll in holy grounds. They happily give you a small tour, get to know you a bit, and then mention a sale around the corner. As you leave they’ll speak with your driver in Thai, and hopefully steer you, commission-bound, to the shop of choice. At the temple of the reclining Buddha I can’t go inside as I’ve arrived just after a meditation hour (open to the public) has begun. I take the outdoor “tour,” learn about the Muay Thai (Thai boxing) academy around the corner, and chat with a Japanese tourist (there are plenty of them). Next comes lunch, and here’s where I get a little angry with Chiang. He tells me we can go here because he’ll get double the commission vouchers (10 liters of gas instead of the usual 5) but the place is way overpriced. You can eat a fabulous meal in Bangkok for one, two bucks. This place costs me over $30. I’m growing tired of my ride as afternoon approaches, and Bangkok traffic prevents us from getting to the final stop of the day. We get close, but it’s late enough that it’s not worth it. Home I go. My hotel is near Patpong, the famous nightlife area with plenty of bars and brothels, but the day has left me fairly beat. I just can’t deal with the seedy parts now. I need quiet and rest and recovery from the driving. Recovery from the driving? There’s nothing like Bangkok traffic. It’s everywhere, with little to no reason. That’s not exactly true. In Japan I ride my bike like a maniac, and my friends sometimes say I’m insane because I’m unpredictable on the road. Not so. I follow the path of least resistance, and in a country where everyone else obeys the rules of the road religiously (and you ride a vehicle with barely any rules at all), it’s easy enough to know where that path is, and where it’s safe. But in Thailand, everyone follows the path of least resistance. Motorcycles ride down sidewalks. Cars cut up lanes of oncoming traffic (usually when it’s deserted, at least). Lanes themselves mean next-to-nothing, what with cars, the smaller nimble tuk-tuks, and bikes cutting any way they can squeeze. It’s bedlam. Then the tuk-tuk, it’s faster and cheaper than taxis, but it also is open air and at just the right height for absorbing bus belches. Sit in the same spot under a claustrophobic overpass for 20 minutes with the smog of hundreds of cars, you can get dizzy. By the end of the day I was chain-smoking cigs just to get my breaths through a filter – trust me, it was cleaner. That’s what Bangkok traffic is. When you get home, you don’t want to lie down for fear your white linens will become black. You just head straight for the shower and breath the air-conditioned air, your lungs slowly decompressing. So this night, that’s exactly what I do, munching some room service that’s cheaper than any meal in the states. Next day I’m moving places – my hotel was wonderful (and only $18 for me – thank you internet discounters!) but I’ve got to experience a few. Haggling with the drivers is quite a pain – I’m coming out of a grand hotel, so the price is automatically double or triple what it should be. Too bad I know that. The car services from the hotel are no better – in fact, they quote rates three times the exorbitant tuk-tuks. If you’re leaving some tourist area or something nice, either have a driver already or walk a few blocks. It’s the only way. Finally I get a price which is only a lot more than it should be, and I take it. Over to the next hotel, not nearly as nice as my previous one (and more expensive, how I miss you internet). Plop my stuff and walk a good ways from the hotel – no more rip-offs for awhile, enough rides. After five minutes I wave down a tuk-tuk (done in Thailand with an extended arm flapping, palm down) and head to Jim Thompson’s house. This guy was American military during WWII and he fell in love with Thailand. Returned during peacetime, rediscovered the dying silk trade and revitalized it, making a small fortune for himself in the process. His estate is lovely, right on the water in traditional Thai stilt fashion (to avoid the annual floods), and I spend plenty of time taking in the grounds after the tour ends (you can only see the place with a tour, but worry not, they come in numerous languages and often). I dine in Jim’s restaurant as my Thai air stewardess recommended it (and it was decent, but give me the noodle shops any day). Coming out I meet a very nice tuk-tuk driver, Arkhom, who offers to take me around for some evening entertainment. After I’ve convinced him I don’t want a sex tour or anything, he takes me to a regular massage parlor. Thai massages, they are special (and I’m not referring to any finish). The traditional massage of the land has been described as passive yoga, and that’s not far off. Energy centers you didn’t know existed will be exercised and exorcised, muscles will stretch (really stretch), tension is actively attacked and thrown out of your body, like an invading beast. And they’re so cheap – an hour shouldn’t cost more than a movie in small-town America. Arkhom takes me to a great noodle shop – one that’s got tremendous food and is cheap, I don’t have to guess – then drops me off at my hotel for a night of soft soft sleep. He offers to drive me around the next day for free if I visit a few shops, and I happily agree (if they take you shopping, that’s how it should be). And if you don’t want to shop, you’ll hafta pay a little more and be very clear before you get in – otherwise, like it or not, you’re going. No matter what you pay. Next day right on time (not Thai time!) Arkhom takes me to Chitladda Palace (or whatever you want to call it – the place has a thousand names) next to the zoo, my missed final stop from earlier. The complex is huge and full of the most interesting displays. For instance, two different houses host the King’s photography and paintings (not of, but by). He’s pretty good. Another is full of silk dresses and gowns worn by royalty. A huge hall is full of nothing but statues and art made with beetle wings – one of the most interesting and beautiful art forms I’ve ever seen, and one that was about to die out before the Queen sponsored its continuation. You probably hear about how you should never insult the Royal Family, and that’s true, the Thais take it very seriously. You might as well tell a dad he has a stupid ugly kid. But in fairness – assuming it isn’t all propaganda – the family is extremely active. They bestow patronage to all sorts of ailing industries, not so much for the prestige, but just to save that part of the culture and help the artisans. They are very involved in charity work. Thai kings have been known to dress like peasants and survey what life is really like on the ground. And they remain slightly more than just figureheads. One controversial bill a few years ago was promptly decided once the King weighed in. (Looks like he was wrong on that one – but don’t dare say it. Because it came from the King, it took a very long time to change.) Royalty has also toppled a Thai government or two – both helping to oust military rulers, or sometimes replace corrupt democracies with, uh, military rulers. This isn’t ancient history. This is the past century, right into the ‘90s. Regardless, the Palace is fabulous, and the main attraction – the royal residence itself – is both grand and tasteful. Being the chatty sort I wind up spending plenty of time talking to (and translating for) some Japanese tourists who came along on our English tour (they were traveling with some Thai, so as a compromise everyone joined the one guide no one understood). Some of the rooms were astounding, as well as the collections (the dining ware from around the world particularly caught my eye). No doubt, Royalty in Thailand is on par with everywhere else in the world. I spent a good three hours walking the grounds, and could easily have spent more. Next, another noodle shop dinner (again awesome, filling, about $1.50 with a beer). Then, it couldn’t be avoided, I’m writing about Thailand, so I went to… a go-go bar. Rumors say that these places are nothing like they used to be. Not so, at least not where I was. The bikinis came off onstage, and all sorts of strange feats of vaginal strength were performed. Bottles were opened – then filled with coke. Balloons popped with blow darts. Cigarettes were smoked. One banana was shot into my lap (I disappointed the crowd by not eating it). By comparison, the climactic straight up sex on stage was tame. Be careful here. You enter, and the ladies are all over you. They sit on either side and start rubbing your crotch (this can be avoided by coming with a female travel companion, and many people do – mostly 50-something Brits, it seemed). They grab your hand and put it down their bikini top, followed by demanding drinks and tips (they make money off each drink they get). You can pay a “fine” and bring one of these ladies home with you – mostly the regular girls who just walk around flirting up the customers, but sometimes the performers if you’re willing to pay a larger fine. Rooms are available in the back for quickies or increased secrecy. Rarely are you far from exposed flesh, and you’re encouraged to touch. American strip shows might as well be sponsored by Disney. Lots of guys succumb to these things – hell, half of them (or more) come to Thailand just for it. Those who don’t often get painted with that brush, so if they were hoping for some romance they’ll be disappointed when most normal ladies stay away (so no one mistakes them for one of the many versions of a hooker). I’ve heard more than one story of the well-meaning breaking down. If you’re a recovering sex addict, Thailand is not the place for you. That said, if you don’t want to see this sort of thing, it’s fairly easy to avoid. Most of the trade is centered in just a few areas, so stay away and sex tourism won’t intrude. If I went with a family, I’m (fairly) sure I’d be left alone. Straight-up couples, though, can be seen as marks for threesomes. So prepare your chill beg-out before your bulging eyes get you in trouble with the Mrs. Anyway, I went into the lion’s den and I survived. Honestly, the show was extreme enough it was more like a circus than sex. Still, very interesting. And that, fittingly, was the end to my last full Bangkok day. And not a moment too soon. The city is vibrant, friendly, it has the energy of a horny teenager without the brooding. But it’s still a horny teenager, with awful smog for hormones and a pushy clingy tourist industry as… I don’t know, peer pressure. While everyone is nice, you can get tired of constantly fighting over every price or beating back tuk-tuks when all you want to do is walk (and while you don’t want to walk Bangkok as a means of transportation, it’s a great way to see the real city). Thus the following day I spend some time shopping the street markets of Khao San (protected by the plethora of easier marks wandering the area), get another spine-adjusting massage, and catch my overnight train for Chiang Mai. The bus is faster and cheaper, but the train is more comfortable and friendlier, so I go with it. I meet a Colombian couple and struggle to recall my high school Spanish (we understand each other, anyway). Strike up a conversation with the most gorgeous girl studying tourism in Chiang Mai (I seem to meet budding tour guides every time I head up there, must be a big school). The train is just always a fun place to experience people and swap stories. I’m picked up and taken to my 5 star hotel (at pauper’s prices, hehe). Meet a German man and his Thai wife – who he met at a Bangkok bar. By which I mean she’s a bar girl. By which I mean he paid the “bar fine” to take her back to his hotel. They married not long after. Agree to meet up for dinner with them, but first I must nap (the train is great fun, but the bunks are not the best for sleep). Get up and… I just wander. I’ve long thought Chiang Mai is a nice city, one I could spend serious time in, and in the back of my mind is the knowledge I’m probably not going to get another visa for Japan in three months. A freelance writer’s wages aren’t huge – but they are in Thailand. I want to get a better feel for the city. And it doesn’t disappoint. I’m walking down non-descript streets – certainly not tourist areas – but there’s plenty of interest. Restaurants both Thai and foreign. Temples everywhere (Chiang Mai is one of the more Buddhist cities in southeast Asia). Open-air bars setting up for the live music they have each night. Plenty of good places to get a Thai massage. And it seems to be lacking the in-your-face sex trade – it’s still around (and often disguised as karaoke bars in CM) but nothing like Bangkok. Closer to the amount Kyoto has. And Chiang Mai is like Kyoto in other ways – it too used to be a capital city (for the Lanna Kingdom, in CM’s case). It’s not the largest town around – not even close – but it has plenty of people, and the energy of a city much larger. Surrounded by mountains. Rivers that don’t seem polluted. It’s much prettier and more relaxed than Bangkok, and unlike its southern big brother, much of the historical hasn’t been paved over (although that’s happening as we speak). I like it. A lot. I get some Chinese-styled soup, and then a massage from a blind man with uncanny touch (Chiang Mai is also a Thai massage center). The fact that it’s so close to the (now mostly drug-free) Golden Triangle and Silk Road give it an old cultural mixture. A very tolerant place (not that Bangkok isn’t – they just don’t have time to think about it there). After my walk I shower and meet my new friends for dinner. We eat at an in-between place – something like the tourist version of a noodle shop. Pretty good seafood though, and hella spicy, which I like. After off we are, briefly walking through the night bazaar on our way to the beer bars. Yes, these places have waitresses you can take home – however, that doesn’t have to be what they’re about. Bar girls like to laugh like anyone else – in fact, having fun is much more central to Thai culture than most others. Even if you aren’t there looking for sex – perhaps especially if you aren’t – you can sit around and enjoy the friendliness and the happy light vibe. That’s why we come – the German and his wife both think beer bars are generally more relaxed and fun than the usual scene. That whole tension of the hunt is lacking. Just drinking and laughing. It’s a strange thing. After all, can you think of anytime anywhere in the west where you’d go to a glorified brothel just to… hang out? That isn’t quite fair – beer bars are more like full service entertainment stands, I guess, not brothels – but still. The entire attitude about selling sex is different over here. But that’s too big a subject to delve into in this journal. So we drank and played pool late into the night, before turning in for a plush plush five-star pillow. Next day I take a trip to Doi Supthet – the name of a nearby mountain and unofficially the name of its temple. Here, things get crazy. Why? Why else? A girl. She’s a young Chinese lady fluent in both English and Japanese, not to mention a few versions of her mother tongue. Sharp and fast, we play witty word games and poke fun at each other the whole ride. Naturally, the air electrifies. Our tour group visits a Hill Tribe village and we see all sorts of tourist set-ups – a traditional house, traditional group garden, traditional souvenir stands selling traditional tourist souvenirs. Still, there is more authenticity here than most such things have – at least it’s a working village, façade be damned. Next is the temple itself. A splinter of us walk up the 300 steps instead of taking the cable car – in order to ascend to heaven, as the legends say. The courtyard surrounding an inner sanctum is something to see itself, with its perfect view over Chiang Mai and the mountains beyond. My Chinese friend and I ring series of large bells – in order to get our wishes granted. We talk awhile with an Aussie, a freelance photographer. He and I talk shop. A young monk takes a meditative pose so his friend can snap pictures on his cell phone, breaking into a smile and laugh each time he breaks and poses for another. Inside is gentle power. Like all great and true holy spots. You can’t help but be quiet. My friend and I light candles and give offerings of incense and flowers. A monk blesses us shakes water on us with a branch before tying strings ‘round our wrists. We joke it feels like a wedding ceremony. It’s getting hot in here. We fill wicker candles with oil. Walk around the central pagoda three times, saying silent prayers. We see a rainbow no one else notices, even when we point it out. All is magic. It’s almost lucky that the Chinese girl is feeling ill towards the end of our tour, so she can’t join me at the Northern style dinner. The food there is sweeter than in the south, and the dance show is endlessly interesting, if a little put on (other dinners have true locals from various tribes perform their dances, instead of a professional troupe). It’s the “expensive” banquet, costing $12.50, dancing included. After dinner, I visit my friend at her hotel. She’s feeling better, and we walk around the bazaar looking for something she can eat. After, back to her place we go. She has a tour early the next morning. I stay over. Understand, this is a weird situation. I have a girlfriend in Kyoto, and she has two (2) boyfriends in Shanghai, her home. So we don’t want to be bad kids. But we also don’t want to say anything close to goodbye. So we sleep in the same bed and cuddle all night. You want to talk about surviving the lion’s den, this is it. I have a pattern of fostering extreme attraction while I’m previously involved and half-acting on it, in just this way. I get to say I haven’t cheated, which is true, I think. But I also get to spend some intimate moments. No kissing or caressing, just closeness. Like looking perfection in the face without greedy grasping (and few moments are more perfect than just before caving to desires… and holding back, and back). I didn’t get much sleep. When she left for her tour I went back to my place and got some rest. Checked out, checked email, got a massage, and got on the train to Bangkok. Now, this train ride was wonderful. I was sitting near two Thai men and a Chinese couple. Everyone was friendly and loving life. When the cabin started to go to sleep – around 8:30 – we relocated to drink and talk in the dining car. Wow. The overhead lights were off with Christmas strings flashing. A tinny music system blasted ‘70s and ‘80s pop rock. Tons of middle-aged Aussie couples clogged all the tables and lanes. And it was... exactly right. This was one of those moments. The moments you travel for – that you live for. When you know that some kind of roads cross and you are exactly where you should be for it. They come when you least expect them. This was one. I glowed the whole night. I could go on and on about it, but words don’t really matter. You know the moments I mean. When they come, you treasure them. And I treasured this one. Back in Bangkok for just a few hours, I walked around the Chinese market near my house (no Durian this trip, must not have been in season). Went for a last massage to get that Thai touch and completely eliminate any knots that might remain. Not that any did. Awoke early the next day, took my train for a quarter, and got on the plane. Worry not my glaze-eyed reader, I’ll return soon.
|
 |  Map and Photos for Traveling Thailand |  |
| | Tip: Use arrow keys to flip through the slideshow. |
Ratings for Traveling Thailand |
| Writing Quality: | | Travel Experience: | | Humor Content: |
Reviews for Traveling Thailand |
No review submitted. Be the first to write a review of Traveling Thailand! | |
|
