Lazy Nights, Water Fights and Food Delights

We'd heard stories of sleepy little Mae Hong Son before we got there. Spending a few tired days in and around the town, it became clear that the stories were true. It was sleepy and beautiful in its own right. The center of the town has a lake bordered on its Southern edge with temples, and illuminated at night made for a picturesque spectacle.

Mae Hong Son at night
And they have a small cave that is occupied by big fish. Just because.

Fish in a cave. Why not? Get into it.
The rural areas surrounding this city are famous for their tribal communities, and if you’ve seen anything about Thailand on the news or the net you’ll recognize the long neck villagers. Fantasies of my meeting with these tribes’ people have long been mythologized in my daydreams. I would enthrall the villagers with tales of trains, planes and automobiles, their giggling children would lose themselves with bewilderment in play with my hairy chest and arms, and the Chief would attempt a peace envoy between our two cultures by demanding I impregnate his daughter.

After some research, the reality became incongruent with these fantasies. I read that the tour guides have taken these villages and turned them into human zoos, with scores of snap-happy tourists passing through and barely any return to the village infrastructure more often than not. I just didn’t feel it would be an authentic experience, so even though the trip would have made excellent photos, I decided to boycott the villages. Ethical accounting of pros and cons found the cons lopsided with exploited ring-necked village folk having to deal with my plastic water bottles and huge amounts of fecal matter, all paid for outside of the village.

So Mae Hong Son was a pleasant quaint town, and we enjoyed our time not doing much at all, but who wants to read a blog about the things a person didn’t do? Bearing this in mind, we jumped on a plane that was barely more than a large toilet paper tube with wheels, wings and an engine and headed back to Chiang Mai.

We all remember those precious days at the end of the school year when our dull lunchtimes were transformed into a battleground for throwing water at each other. Those spontaneous outbursts of teenage anarchy set the stage for the onset of summer and the end of curricular oppression, like a prisoner released from bondage or the first shavings of light cutting holy ribbons through the dawn. The memory of these fights has held a special place in my mind in the 15 odd years since, but after having experienced the Songkran festival, I now realize how simple those days in the schoolyard were.

Songkran is the name given to the Thai New Year, and is quite unlike any New Years I am accustomed to. Instead of being surrounded by roving packs of Cavemen seeking an outlet for their 'Roid Rage', (which seems so typical when I scan the field of my memory), Songkran is a street waterfight with barely any steroids at all, and absolutely no rage. And to my astonishment, for five whole days and nights, people of all ages throw water at each other without the aid of alcohol or drugs. Mostly. And for almost all of those five days and nights, it is just as fun as it was in my school days, using the school fire hose as a way of covertly creating a teenage school uniform wet t-shirt competition to enliven my raging pubescent hormones.

Deep in the war zone
It was a bonding human experience. Anyone who has been to a rave or dance party will know how psychopathically communal people are when they are all on the same drugs. The walls are broken down, there is no social awkwardness, and people relate to each other with ease through a shared experience. I remember hearing stories of people who had been to such events, how they longed for normal life to mirror that sense of unity.

Street party
Sadly I can’t relate to these tales of debauchery and sin as I didn’t complete my strict training to become a kung fu master in the ancient mountains of Tibet until quite recently, but even I understood the kinship they spoke of after I experienced the Thai New Year.

Exercising my discipline as a kung fu master
Thousands of people drenching each other in the streets is an evolution of the Thai custom where people use tea to bless possessions, points of interest and people over the five days of the New Year celebrations. Although a street waterfight might seem a strange mutation of those customs, it is not unwelcome with the Thais. As the people of Thailand see this festival as a happy way for people to give blessing to one another, it does not anger them to be blasted in the face at close range and with force by a bucket of water thrown by an English skinhead. This abhorrent but hilarious misunderstanding by the skinhead is viewed as a blessing on the emergent dreams and wishes of his victims. It doesn’t matter if you are old or new, red or blue, fake or true, Buddhist or Jew, a blessing is a gift to be thankful for when given by anyone else.

Taunting my next victim
And that is what, at its core, made the festival so fun. The hilarity of shooting water at a 75 year old Thai woman dancing in the street is made funnier only because it is in retaliation to her squirting you first. Everyone smiles, traffic stops, and people dance together on the road in the midday sun, all in the name of living a better life. For five days. And the fact that it is done in good humor and without the aid of hallucinogenics is yet another reason why I love the Thais.

Street Party at Night
Don’t think it was all roses though. Being trapped in a constant waterfight did tend to lose its mystique after the fourth day, when requirement for basic necessities required attending to. Successfully picking up dry washing, takeaway food or toilet paper relies on the assumption that you will remain dry for the duration of the endeavor. Our efforts to dodge flying pails of water proved fruitless, as I surrendered to the age old process of turning used underwear inside out to maintain an illusion of cleanliness.

We also enrolled in a cooking course for a day, which involved us biking out to a farm on the outskirts of the city and learning to cook a wide range of Thai dishes in the traditional manner.

Riding my bike.... like a boss
I didn’t know that I could cook before I did this course, but now I could whip you up a curry so good it would literally change your gender. I realize now that it’s like anything: you’ve either experienced through practice the things you have learnt, or you’ve made a choice to do bugger all. Talk is cheap, and ‘can’t’ is a word we use to disempower ourselves because we don’t believe our own truth. Committing to being more than idol utterances feels truly empowering.

Me changing your gender
It makes me smile to look back and see how far I have come in such a small amount of calendar days. Killing time in a bus station reading about Chiang Rai, I sit in eager wait for my next life lesson, when I chance upon meeting a travelling volunteer surgeon that writers have dubbed “The Chinese Mother Teresa”.

Stay tuned.

Dark caves and close shaves

Gliding through the mountain passes on our way to Pai at shoulder height, floating around corners as if all of life was cushioned for our comfort. Ascending the crests on our scooter, tip toeing across the ridge lines, bombarded from all sides by streams of forests poured from the clouds and flowing like green milk down into the valleys.

Did I mention there are 762 corners on the way from Chiang Mai to Pai? Because that’s kind of important. Previously I had chosen a minibus for this perilous mountain journey, the motion sickness coupled with an oppressive hangover making the idea of doing it again about as appealing as a vasectomy performed with a spoon by Stevie Wonder. You could say I was very superstitious of the idea, but I wouldn’t.

We passed two separate minivans parked on verges, flanked by tourists spilling out of their doors for a painful reunion with their breakfasts. We tooted them cheerily with our little scooter horn, our hubris making me feel like a smug pirate. “Avast ye travelers of stormy seas! Our scooter be small but smug we be, for you’ll find no smoother ride than she!” (Works better if you imagine it sung in a pirate voice.)


Smurf Helmet

Pai is a sleepy village three and a half hours drive north of Chiang Mai. The hippy revolution died with Lennon, but there are places where the core values have evolved over time through a sense of community and lack of hard drugs, and that is how I would characterize Pai. Sure, there are people with dreadlocked beards and Jamaican-themed bum bag wallets, but this has not affected the people sense of togetherness. Pai felt like a slice of home, if home failed to shave its armpits and have a warm shower every day.

A chance meeting with a friend from our Permaculture course found us lending a hand on her emerging farm for a day. It was enlivening to see the progress she had made in three relaxed years, especially when she confessed she hadn’t even planted a seed before her decision to create her farm. It inspired me to see people making their dreams into realities incrementally. When asked how she had accomplished so much, she told us she just put in a few hours each day. It seemed such a simple wisdom, and with that seed planted (easy, now) it was time to continue with our transience.

Out of our sleepy hollow we bound, further up into the mountains seeking refuge from our lazy days of peace and love in the hippy village. Having read about the legendary adventures of John Spies and his time in the golden triangle exploring ancient caves and, more interestingly, opium production, we figured this might be our chance to clear out the cobwebs. John had built Cave Lodge out of his sweat and tears in the days before it was cool to be an Asian backpacker, and the place had a bit of a reputation.

Set on a meandering river flowing through a steep gully, Cave Lodge was everything we had hoped for. John had literally written the book on caving in the region, with the lodgings located perfectly central to all of the areas activities including being a 5 minute walk from Cave Lod. That same lazy river that rolls through the gully past Cave Lodge continues its path into the darkness of Cave Lod. If you’re confused, I don’t blame you. Try explaining it to a Thai person in Chinglish for directions and you might have some real problems.

We were happy we hired a guide as we got our first look at the gaping abyss of Lod:

Our guide smiled an honest smile, lit her gas lantern and ushered us onto a bamboo raft, which gradually surrendered to the flowing water. And then there was darkness.

There is something wise and ancient about a cave lit by the light of a flame. In the dancing flicker of the glow I felt humbled, enveloped by an old mystery. This humility lies in us as an ember, a remnant of the fires of our ancestors, and as humans I’m sure we must all have it somewhere or sometime. As our guides swinging lantern illuminated the cave wall, the lazy glow caught sight of an ancient cave painting. Stood in silent awe, I thought about the man who scaled the precarious ridge by the fire of his bamboo torch. I wondered what motivated him, sat in silence surrounded by the flickering shadows of his ancestry, to paint a deer with a bow and arrow cocked and ready to fire. I couldn’t believe a man would seek to accomplish such a feat without reason, but this reason seemed lost as time had reclaimed him and his culture.

After we left the cave, we decided to orientate ourselves by taking a scooter ride through the surrounding villages. With a tourist map and a full tank of gas we bounced our way through simple villages, sailing through mountain checkpoints past Thai soldiers with cannons taller than themselves.


Lovin it
Baby pigs trotted on the road verges and young kids laughed alongside us, two crazy Westerners enveloped and accepted in a passing instant by a culture we barely knew. Wrapped in the beauty of the moment, neither of us were quite sure when it was that we became lost.

The dirt track wound along a ridge for what seemed like forever. Our maps insufficient and the daylight steadily slipping away, I felt reality tugging at the safety blanket I assumed I had that would save me from the jungles midnight terrors. Having been kept at the top of the food chain for so long, I realized that here in the jungle my fistful of money counted for nothing, lest I throw it at a mountain lion and disappear in a comical cloud of Thai baht.

It was at this point the cave painting began making sense. That living, breathing man who scaled the ridge inside the darkness to create his depiction of the hunt did it not for visual aesthetics, nor to impress a girl or carry favor with his peers. He did it because he wanted both the times before and after his reign to know his simple but beautiful truth; he had found peace in his environment. Hunting the deer gave him both a meaning and a purpose. The gratitude that the deer were there yesterday and the prayer of them returning tomorrow were the heights of his success and his contentment. I understood his accomplishment, and peacefully envied it. What would I paint on the cave wall besides possibly a cock and balls to make the next man laugh?


What I might paint on the cave. Note: Drawing of me has a big dick.

As we pressed on into the dusk, I promised I would come up with a direction for my life. Having come to Asia to find meaning in myself, I realized that defining meaning in anything is only possible in retrospect to the choices we make. A thought without action is a flimsy existence, and to reflect on choices we haven’t made will only leave us chasing our imaginary tails.

Following our noses and breathing deep our scenario, we gradually made our way into the arms of our quaint valley bungalow, and in the flickering illumination of a halogen bulb, I plucked up the courage to dream my big dreams. I also scrawled steps to get there, small steps that I could take each day to move me closer to my visions fulfillment, and for the first time in recent memory, tomorrow made sense.

I now know what I'll paint on my cave wall when I get there. I guess the question is, do you?


Moo cows on the road


A column inside the cave


The exit to the cave

Those wonderful men in their rolling machines

Long have I foretold a mode of transport that fails to jar me into a state of nausea, so long as to warrant me pulling down my little girl knickers, kicking them into the corner of the room and applying my big boy briefs with steel staples. Accepting that it was my destiny to be crouched and contorted in a cardboard box sized seat like a Mexican immigrant took everything I had within me and more.

It seems though that through the tenant of acceptance I have found my salvation, just as the Eastern mystics promised, in the form of The Sleeper Train. I speak of the sleeper train the way people speak of something secret, something dark or beautiful or forbidden, in a whisper lest the crashing volume of normal utterance send the magnificent card castle tumbling down upon us. So if you have never experienced the glory that is the sleeper train, let me get you on board, so to speak.

Out of the sweltering midnight haze and heat you emerge, the shiny carriages of promise glistening in the stolen light of the station. The attendant greets you at the door, and you are granted your entrance to the kingdom. Inside, there are beds. Clean crisp sheets on bunk beds just like when you were a wide-eyed child. The air conditioners hum in chorus with the chiming of the air horn, cheering the gentle march onward into the night. As you creep towards slumber, the train rocks you gently, reminiscent of the distant familiarity of the movement you experienced whilst your mother was pregnant with you, the gentle to and fro that rocking chairs and swaying hammocks seek to emulate. As a sales pitch it seems rock solid, but there is more.

Any man who has been in reasonably tight jeans down an uneven road surface knows the feeling. It’s the ultimate union of man and machine. Embraced by my mistress, the train of the evening, caressed so carefully and purposefully I’m left guilty and embarrassed like a schoolboy fantasy spoken aloud, screaming out “Oh Special Express, what ways to soothe my tattered soul will you imagine next?” And if all that is too esoteric to garner understanding as to what I’m talking about, then I apologize in advance, I was taught not to kiss and tell.

Now follow in my pied-piper attempts to make the rest of my life this blissful, starting with Chiang Mai. I really do like Chiang Mai. Around the Old City there is a large stone wall and moat which forms the traffic structure for the commerce that it throbs with. It has a temple count to rival that of Bangkok, and being significantly smaller and slower in pace it is a tourist hotspot. It also has a popular University, so the city is a mish mash of monks and hipster youth. Chiang Mai: a pleasant blend of old customs and new customers.

We hired a scooter and went to one of the more popular temples atop the mountains overlooking the city. I met a lovely young Thai man and we spoke at length of meditation and our disciplines to still our minds, and he invited me to stay with him in a few weeks time at his humble home. It left me with sorrow for the loss of this hospitality in amidst our Western ideas of stranger danger. And even though I like to think of myself as open to the flow of life and relatively fearless, I cannot say that I did not picture staying at his house and awakening in the morning to a naked ice bath with a banging headache and one missing kidney. When I asked for his name I had to clarify, for I was pretty sure he said “Nob”. Nop and I laughed about it together, and even through his broken English I’m pretty sure he knew what it meant.

Chillin at the temple
As well as a temple visit, it’s also hard to spend any amount of time in Chiang Mai without being bombarded with the possibility of elephant trekking. I hadn’t claim to formal introduction with any elephants in my short time on this earth, so to consider the ethical grounds for this sort of odd-couple union was difficult. Elephants are known to be quite moody animals, and in perspective I can’t imagine that you or I would enjoy being saddled and ridden around in the privacy of our own lounge-room, let alone publicly in the Thai jungle. But then again, I probably don’t know you that intimately to make an informed judgement.

We ended up choosing Baanchang elephant park as they are saddle-free and expend a lot of energy rescuing elephants from lives of hard labor. In Thailand, it is not uncommon for logging operations to use elephants to lift felled trees onto trucks, effectively commandeering them as flesh forklifts. Baanchang uses its resources gained from being a commercial tourism operation to purchase elephants off of the logging operators. Whether this is a band-aid solution that simply empowers the loggers with finance and incentive to replace sold elephants or not I cannot be sure of, but the elephants in the park seemed content and catered for, bordering on spoilt. As I threw piles of bananas and sugarcane straight into their gaping mouths, they rewarded me occasionally with that wonderfully cliché trumpet sound you’ve heard them do whilst watching David Attenborough. As if it was part of a script. Elephants are almost too amazing.
Me and the elephant sizing each other up

An elephant can consume as much as 300 kilos of organic matter in a day. It has skin two inches thick and can live for 85 years. They are the ultimate mobile compost factories of the forest, constantly devouring vast amounts of leaf matter into a more readily digestible form for plants to consume. Confident in its monumental and integral role in the forest ecosystem, it is no surprise that when I kicked it and told it to turn left, it just flapped its ears and released gas out its arse.

I stopped cold and peered deeply into the fallibility of the human condition. I realized that we dominate and subdue our natural surroundings not because of our inherited intelligence or strength, but because in the scheme of things we are weak. Humans are the white frilly ballet dancer dress of the natural world, molly-coddled into existence in equatorial environments so amazingly gentle and abundant that the improbability of us even existing is impossible for our tiny minds to grasp. It is no surprise governments spend untold amounts of money on “offensive” weapons and label it “defense”. Misconceiving our own grandeur, we see ourselves as bullied by nature, bullied by circumstance and bullied by each other. We are the snotty nosed Columbine High nerd kids seeking retribution, scrambling to dominate not because we believe our own power, but because we know intimately our inherent weakness.

And as I lay on my semi submerged elephant friends stomach in a comical embrace of differing orders of size, I caught her gaze and understood that we were not so different. Especially when she sent an incomprehensibly large fart bubbling into the watering hole we both occupied and smiled sheepishly, the same way I used to as a child sharing the bath with my brothers and sisters. My name is Ben Connor, and I am at one with the elephants.

x

Me on the elephant right as it was farting
Maz, Me and our elephant show-off mate