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.)
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.
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?
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?
Awesome Ben, keep the stories comin
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