In the back of a red minibus driven by Michael Knight of the Far East
and I am misty. Melancholy melodies floating through my head and salty
water gathering at the lashes edge.
I am leaving Chiang Mai, and Thailand and heading to Burma - country 33 I
believe - to have an adventure with my dear friend Laura and perhaps
gain some spiritual awareness in the land so deeply rooted in Buddhism
it is brand spanking new to the tourism game.
My last couple of days in the Northern town of Chiang Mai have been
almost delightful and that, in no small part is due to my Canadian Danny
Zucco, my travel mate for this week and an undeniably nice man from the Great White North by way of a little Caribbean country.
I'd venture to say we met for a reason. If only I believed in that sort of thing...
Both hurting, both grieving, both lost in Thailand searching for the
answers to regaining composure after the loss of a parent; the loss of a
best friend.
I'd like to think my dad was playing matchmaker in the sky, trying to
keep me safe, and trying to make me a little less lonely in this big
crazy world.
The woman who had booked our transport for the Monkey Show monstrosity
had told us we were not to miss the Sunday Walking market. It is an
expansive market, blocking off one main thoroughfare in town and
splitting off for different arteries, offering local crafts, noodles
served by hand, literally, and the same old shit available at every 'market' in the
world (key chains, magnets, etc).
Living in a city with nearly 9 million people it takes a lot for me to use this word- but it was overwhelming.
Throngs of patchouli scented travelers, Bermuda hatted tourists and
assertive locals push their way down the streets, bartering deals and
tasting exotic cuisine.
Traveling with a slightly less adventurous bloke we did not eat off of the street and instead ate at a local
restaurant with a sole employee and prix fix menu featuring a plethora
of pork with the bonus of provided entertainment in the form of the real housewives of
anywhere USA pontificating on how people swore they were essentially in utero
until they gave birth to their progeny. I'm suspect. Stomachs full and people watched accomplished, we
meandered the streets until late into the evening, stumbling across a
town square and a sparkling temple to which I had not yet been privy.
Stories were exchanged, as we're hugs with Luciano, an old eccentric
man from Italy who perches atop his bicycle, offering an embrace for free, at
the entrance to the old city. Rubins wasn't up for the task feigning
the flu but Luciano had a sparkle in his eye and I was feeling one love, so I
gave it a shot.
Back in our beds at the Royal Guest House I had the mosquitoes and my stolen Air Asia blanket to keep me warm till morning came.
The
perception of who I am seems to lean more toward the ball buster than
the doting pretend wife persona but I am a woman, and as women tend to
do, I acquiesced to the wants and desires of my partner, even if it was
just a pretend boyfriend for a week, and agreed to go to the cooking
class on which he seemed so keen.
We signed up for an
all day course at Asia Scenic Thai Cooking School and after handing over
1000 baht for these 7 courses of instruction all I knew is that I was
going to eat. After being picked up by Marin, our teacher for the day at
8 am we wound through the back alleys of Chiang Mai before arriving at
this charming outdoor instructional center with our motley crew of
foreigners fixed on the culinary arts.
There was a
small quiet Filipino girl who seemed very excited about the prospect of
learning a new style of cooking and perhaps equally disappointed to
discover that Thai and Filipino food are perhaps not all that different.
There was a Swiss couple comprised of a friendly chef and his older yet
still trophy worthy wife. A lion of a young man named Leo who had left
his girlfriend back in Bordeaux to spend a month in Thailand taking as
many cooking courses as possible in order to master the field - and who
insisted I was Brazilian so I immediately adored, Rubins a gentle and
cautious young man from Canada on his first real foreign adventure, a
sassy American who will remain unnamed, and Peter, a very granola and
very friendly farmer by way of Massachusetts who had attended a family
wedding in Malaysia and decided to stop on over in Thailand for some
cooking and some very heavy conversation with aforementioned American.
The
papaya salad and spring rolls went of without a hitch, but as the day
progressed and my spacious belly ran out of vacant area and my cooking
suffered. We had completed 3 courses when it was time for a very lengthy
lunch break and it seemed as though, though all of us spoke English as
the common language, we paired off into groupings of those who could
understand minutae in conversation that only a native speaker can really grasp.
Rubins and Leo chatted enthusiastically in
French while Peter and I began a conversation across the table on a
lazy, sunny afternoon. Small talk has never been my strong suit and I
greatly appreciate those who, like me, appreciate the 'heavier' in life
but looking back I can honestly not say how Peter and I went from
chatting about coriander to him very emotionally speaking to me about
the loss of his mother a couple of years ago and me needing only a few
minutes before reaching for the 1 ply tissues available all over Asia.
At one point he was speaking about the actual moments in which his mother lost
his life and I was crying and though I had not told him anything about
what has been going on with me or why perhaps this trip is so meaningful
to me at the moment - he looked at me and said - I can tell you've been
wondering the same sorts of things.
It was not
flirtatious and playful - it was very real and very raw and, if Peter
ever reads this - very appreciated. I don't find comfort in other's pain,
but there is some sort of club I now seem to be a member of and it feels
like a friendly hug or knowing nod everytime someone reveals the secret handshake.
By
the time we were to soups and curries I must have checked out because
although I added plenty of fresh chilis and followed my teachers
instructions to a T, the meals were beautiful, yet bland and I was hitting limit with food fascination for the day.
I stand by my statement that food just tastes better when someone else makes it.
After there was yet another siesta - a favorite for the mounty man.
More
evening walks by the waterway and we were ready for big changes. We
were ready to shake things up - we were ready to step out on a ledge and
- eat Mexican food. A Californian snob at heart, I will give El Diablo, though suffering a bit of a cultural identity crisis,
it's due respect. Pancho Villa it was not, however, the enormous (and
pricey) burritos that were served were pretty darn good and though their
homemade chips were unorthodox, after you eat one or two you realize
the thick cornmealy taste is a hearty flavor worth further exploring.
Time for bed.
Eating
and napping all day can really take it out of a girl - leaving me to
lazily rise close to 9 am, the latest call time yet. A main draw for the
Royal Guesthouse was the bright blue pool featured on their site that
looked clean and crisp and refreshing. It did not disappoint. During
sunny hours there seem to be a litany of young European woman doused in
coconut oil and little else catching some rays. I chose to be that young
ingenue, if only in my head, and grabbed my recently purchased novel, my
cell phone connected to the hostel's wifi and a bottle of water to spend
an hour or two lounging by the pool and earning my Brazilian good looks -
Ha!
I had already gone for a run and I deserved it.
When
I could no longer justify lounging, I went to wake my chilled out chum
and suggested we do SOMETHING, anything. I took a quick look at my Lonely Planet,
as well as the map handed to me from the front desk and decided on Doi
Suthep, a temple situated high in the hills above Chiang Mai that is
supposed to be relatively close, which in Asia means anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 days away.
After
negotiating a red minibus to the zoo one is expected to catch another
vehicle that costs 40 baht or so. This is the way prices are quoted to
you, but costs seems to be all in the fine print in this Buddhist
paradise because only if 10 of you get on the same bus at the same time
going the same direction is the cost of a ride 40 baht. Otherwise you'll get a
quite closer to 400 and, being in a foreign land with a foreign
language and not used to foreign 'customs' - they know they pretty much have you from the short and curlies.
We
waited a good 40 minutes or so before 3 other travelers were on board
and perhaps seeing that business was not booming on this particular
afternoon the driver agreed to bring is up and down the mountain for 50 baht.
Drawing
upon memories of nausea along Highway 17 during childhood road trips
the route up the mountain was difficult, at least for someone as prone
to motion sickness as me. After the windy road come the 300 steps or so
up the ceramic dragon lined steps to the temple. My only altercation en
route took place with an 8 year-old girl dressed in traditional garb out
for blood who, when hearing my shutter shoot from my hip stated in no uncertain terms -
'money'. I dismissively said no and stepped around
her, with her cutting me off at the pass as repeating 'money.' My guess
is this manipulation is most successful due to the enormous amounts of
white guilt that take on those stairs.
Luckily for me my self pity
leaves me rarely experiencing such things.
Once I reached the
summit I was met with magic hour light and a pagoda of reflective gold
so beautiful it almost sang. After a loop around the property to take in
the luscious pinks and greens of blooming bougainvillea and views of the
city below as far as the eye can see.
Once we approached the
center of the square we each took turns scribbling words of love,
remembrance, and classic rock on the long golden scroll meant to be
inscribed and wrapped around the pagoda.
A book on Karma written
by a local monk with hopes of Buddhism helping me see the light in life
and a handful of prayer bells in my bag and we were off down the steps,
in the bus and back into town.
With no real direction in mind we
hopped out once the minibus seemed to have reentered old town and,
almost as if the gods were answering my pretend boyfriend's dietary
prayers, we were right in front of a burger spot. A chicken burger
ordered, and a pork burger delivered I consumed this lackluster meal
replete with fruit shake before looking over and noticing Guest House
Art Gallery 24.
Just then is dawned in me - Peter from
the day before had mentioned an interesting if rather amateur photo
exhibit there and it felt like kismet that we would randomly stop here,
get the burgers he needed and the art I craved.
Upon entrance it
feels more like a home for the young family who owns and runs the
establishment, adorable toddler in tow. When you enter the 'gallery'
which is a simple room with colorful snaps of reflections from the flood a
couple of years back in Bangkok, scotch taped up in a haphazard manner along the walls you're
instantly entranced. The photos are interesting and engaging.
Essentially, they are just
different - I bought 3!
A
long walk home and quick break to rest my barking dogs and drop of my
book of good vibes and we decided to take a romantic stroll down the ho
littered streets to the Night Bazaar, where yet more shopping is not only
encouraged. It's expected.
Eureka! I finally found the
last gift in the trilogy of nephew trinkets for the most unforgiving of
the bunch and all I can hope is he doesn't look at me with disgust and spit in my face at such a puerile attempt at a present. Wish me luck.
Rubins
ran into a friend from Bangkok and being only of the only black man in
the country was treated like a Backstreet Boy by the locals feeling
compelled to yell out, touch or offer 'sexy chocolate man come inside
of me' when excited by his mere presence on the street. It was like being
with a celebrity, in a tank top.
The heat here really does take it
out of you and I had to leave for the airport in the morning, Burma bound,
so some sweet pillow talk of life's struggles and love and travel was
shared from our respective pillows, in our respective beds - it's not that kinda party - in a humid room.
I realize this is how life works, just in a microcosm
when traveling: people come and people go; places matter and then they
don't. Sometimes just as something seems to be beginning, it ends - as
did my time in Chiang Mai and my week-long platonic romance with a kind man from Canada who offered me friendship and understanding in a
time when I needed it most.
Merci, Fancy Pants...
Day 66
