A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 3: Chiang Mai Daze, Chapter 2: Passing Time

Gonna grease through the rest of my days in CM here right quick, so bear with me. This is long overdue.

I spent a total of three weeks in Chiang Mai, the first of which was ardently spent being turned down from job after job. There were a couple of days where I had the opportunity to revisit Wat Doi Suthep and offer my services to a monk friend of Berm’s, teaching English to the dek wat, or the children of the temple, little monk dudes between the ages of 8 and 12. Apparently, most Thai men serve some time in an ordained temple at some point in their life, usually at a young age. The duration of this service was traditionally 4 years, at which time they would be ordained nen, or novice monks, or return to their lay life, although that time has decreased recently. Most guys I talk to who have already served only do it for a week or two.

This was a damn unique experience, getting up to the temple around 4:30 in the a.m., chatting with some of the kids, following them around the temple grounds as they went about their chores, some of them armed with iPods, and attempting to sit in with them during their meditations, which lasted around 4 or 5 hours until about noon (I had to be gently nudged awake from my own meditations, but the monks were cool and didn’t judge). The lessons were simple conversational skills and a little writing, held in the afternoon, but a little difficult to get through since the dek wat weren’t allowed to eat any solid foods after twelve o’clock, which meant I couldn’t eat any solid foods, as I had promised to follow suit with their daily routine. After the two days were up, Berm’s friend told me he’d love to have me back on a regular basis, but the children would leaving the temple for a month on vacay. “So, could you come back at the end of October?”
“Yeesh! The end of October? I’m sorry, I would love to, but there’s no way I can go a whole month without some kind of income. I’ll probably need to find some other work,” I apologized to him.
“Oh, we wouldn’t be paying you. You’d stay up here on the mountain, and live off of the alms of the dek wat. But don’t worry; the donations are usually pretty generous, especially for Wat Doi Suthep.” I don’t think I need to tell you how this conversation ended. Let’s just say that I think they were looking for somebody who was a little more willing to adhere to the Ten Precepts.

My second week was spent making up for those rejections; plumbing the depths of pleasure and finding more and more creative ways to spend my money and numb the already growing sense of desperation at not being employed (“Jesus Chricycle, did I really come over here without a job? Was I just whistling Dixie, telling my mom she didn’t have to worry about me finding work once I got here?”) Standard outlets of leisure would not suffice in these circumstances; I mean I was in Thailand, dammit. I’d already visited most of the clubs, bars, and venues around town, treated myself to fine dinners at exotic restaurants, and exhausted the anticlimactic massage parlors. I’d fed elephants on the street, gazed out from the summit of Doi Suthep, and got my ass handed to me in takro. Naw, I needed an adventure; raw experience. And opium seemed like a good place to start.

A friend of Berm's agreed to take me up into the mountains to visit a few of the tribal villages populating the country-side, source of the hippity-hops I now sought. On the way up into the hillsides, we passed Doi Suthep and the winter palace residence of the King himself. Before we reached our destination however, we were deterred by herds of people headed the opposite direction, warning us of massive flooding and subsequent landslides that made travel, and thus opium smokage, impossible. Chiang Mai had been subject to a deluge of rainfall in recent days, so this was not unexpected, however unfortunate. So, I headed back downhill, empty-handed, unemployed, and agenda-less. I vowed not to waste any time moping around, and decided to bump-up a little trip I had planned to visit a farm on the Ping River, which runs through the heart of CM. I was to stay there a couple of days, earning my keep by helping to gather many of the fruits and vegetables that were sold to several riverside restaurants back in the city. I would also learn the ancient methods of harvesting that lifeblood of all Asia, the tiny grain that makes Uncle Ben smile so much: rice. I saw it as an opportunity to see some of the rural surroundings of CM, a little stroll back through time if you will, to see what life was like way back when. If anything, the trip would provide me a short break from the smothering, debris-layered CO2 of the city.

I arrived at the farm via scorpion-tail boat shortly after noon, with the sun at its apex and on a day when the gods ironically decided to turn off their torrential faucet, bringing the whole of their heliocentric fury down on my sweaty brow. It was my hottest day yet in Thailand, and a precursor to what I was in store for over the next year. The farm was a charming little plot, medieval though it was, situated right on the river with groves of trees and gardens spilling over every acre of land. I was the only guest which gave me ample time to myself, something I was looking forward to after my first week or so in the big city.

It was sweaty-balls hot out on that farm, and even without the opium I had planned to accompany me, it was mind-numbing work. Though after getting the initial morning-gripes out, and after finding my rhythm, mind-numbing turned into mind-cleansing, and at the end of each day I had a clearer head than I could remember ever having in recent years. I picked a plethora of fruits and vegetables: mangoes, apples, morning glory, lemongrass, papaya, finger-bananas, galangal, ginger, cashews, corn, carrots, onions, garlic, jackfruit, dragon fruit, star fruit, tamarind, guava, kiwi, rambutan, jujube, pomegranate, stinky durian and several others I’d never even heard of before. I was able to sample some of everything, either raw or in various noodle and rice dishes that were prepared for every meal. Unfortunately, the menu wasn’t without meat, and the meat came from the farm just like everything else. I say unfortunately, because just like all the fruits and vegetables I dined on, I was given the opportunity to harvest the pork that I ate as well. Not wanting to look squeamish in the eyes of the farm residents, I followed a smiling fellow into the yard behind the kitchen, where a little pen housed two little squealing bodies, looking more like pot-bellied pigs than the rotund, pink hogs I had envisioned (I think you can see a picture of one on my Facebook, poor little bastard). He was a hill pig; I was informed, and very common to northern Thai dishes calling for pork. The grim process I imagined was much more gruesome than what I was actually asked to do. I basically led the little guy over to a miniature-guillotine, secured his unsuspecting little noggin in place, and then brought the swift resolution of the French Revolution down upon his little hoggy head. Don’t worry, those are the only details you’re going to get, because I situated myself so that my farmer friend couldn’t see my face, and therefore couldn’t see that I had my eyes closed until all movement from the hog had ceased. My supper that night was bitter-sweetly delicious. The next day, after a fitful sleep full of dreams of talking pigs, I headed back up-river to CM and Santitham.

After a relaxing day and night back home, I attempted a jungle-trek, something Chiang Mai is famous for amongst backpackers. This excursion was cut short for the same reason my opium hunt was cut short. The stretch of jungle my troupe and I were set to visit was saturated with mud-slides, and after half a day on a two-day trek, the company was accosted. I don’t know where the little suckers came from; we’d only been in ankle-deep water, but all of a sudden we were laden with leeches of a large variety. They must’ve fallen out of the trees, or developed a wicked vertical; either way they were suddenly all up in our shit. I’ve never been sucked on by a leech, and while they didn’t hurt so much, it was pretty fucking disconcerting pulling the little bastards off your skin. I was tangling with an unreasonably large and stubborn leech, when a blood-curdling scream jolted the twelve or so trekkers I was joined with. Turns out one of the girls had discovered a leech in a very, shall I say, Stand By Me spot, after which she demanded that our guide return us to the base camp. Her hysterical insistence soon began to wear on several others of the group, especially her boyfriend, and that was the end of my jungle trek.

Back home at Santitham, I decided to lay low at the guest house for the next few days until my departure to Koh Tao, an island paradise I had planned a trip to as a birthday present to myself. Sitting around the guesthouse, I happened upon a Spanish lady by the name of Amelie. She was in CM attending ITM, one of the massage-training schools, and staying at Santitham. After a couple bottles of wine after dinner one evening, I convinced her to do her homework on me. During the massage, we planned on visiting the Night Safari together the next night. The so-called “Night Safari” was a bonafide zoo on the outskirts of town, the “Safari” consisting of an auto-piloted tram that drove visitors past several dismal-looking, artificial habitats, shining bright lights on the sleeping animals, all of which you can see at the SFCC training zoo. I assume the “Night” part of the Night Safari was devised to try and mask the very miserable lives these animals must lead. On the tuk-tuk drive home, after chastising the Thais for glorifying such a shitty “attraction” with elaborately ubiquitous advertisements, I convinced Amelie to join me on my trip south to Koh Tao that I would be taking in a few days. I told her it was a Mecca for scuba-divers the world over, and how cheap it was going to be to get certified, after which she happily signed on. We researched plane tickets together, and after a couple more days of preparation, we were off. I remember contentedly sitting on the plane, happy to have a travel companion, excited and a little jittery about my upcoming underwater adventures. How little did I know.

A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 3: Chiang Mai Daze , Chapter 1: Berm and I and the CM SlumDogs

My time in Chiang Mai seems like ancient history, writing about it now after having been in Surat going on four months. The rest of my days were mostly spent hitting the pavement, peddling my teacher services to whoever would lend an ear, and avoiding the annoying mother-daughter duo from New York. My daily routine usually consisted of waking up at the crack of dawn (more from the constant hammering and drilling around the guesthouse than actual motivation), wolfing down some fruit and yogurt, hopping on my bicycle, knocking at the door of every school I stumbled upon, being turned down, and then drowning my disappointment in cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey whilst honing my already formidable people-watching skills. And let me tell you, there was some seriously interesting people-watching to be had in that northern Thai mecca of monks and missionaries, sex-patriats and lady-boys, thrill-seeking jungle-trekkers and fried-eyed opium denizens. I didn't make too many friends in Chiang Mai, not to my chagrin, and what few friends I did make were almost always Thai, not to my chagrin. The reason, and I'm a little embarrassed to say this, is that the overall representation of foreigners in Thailand seem to be cut from a seedier, sleazier, crustier cloth, and I'm not even referring solely to the old European/American scumbags who come over and buy a wife they can order around after shit goes wrong back home. Those guys are an apparently permanent fixture to the social landscape of Thailand, have been for generations, and unfortunately the Thais have grown accustomed to their presence, and more importantly, their money. No, I'm talking about the population of holiday-farang who seemingly flock to Thailand from all-parts Europe so that they can behave and dress as irresponsibly and disgustingly flamboyant as possible. I am by no means pigeon-holing the Europeans, its just that they outnumber all other travelers by a suffocating ratio (I've only met a handful of Americans, and almost all of them are teaching alongside me in Surat Thani, but rest assured, they usually fit the same despicable mold). I can think of only a few foreigners that I've met here in Siam that I would even consider striking up a conversation with back home, let alone a friendship.



One of the first friendships I formed was with the very first person I conversed with in Chiang Mai, and that's Berm, who I've already told you about. Berm is a very aloof, quirky yet capable little Thai dude. I don't read my old posts very much, so I'm not sure if I mentioned this, but Berm is the gay ex-boyfriend of a high school friend of my father's, whose guest house I was staying at. Berm doesn't seem gay upon first meeting him, and if that's an ignorant observation let me go on to say that he doesn't seem straight either. Like I said, he's an aloof character whose mind seems a million miles away, even in the deepest conversation, as if he's still got one foot sutck in the monastery where he spent his monk-hood. But before I elaborate on the platonic bond I formed with my host, let me expound upon some interesting things I learned about those people in Thailand who live what we might call, "alternative lifestyles."

Turns out that homosexuality is not all that alternative in this country. In fact, most families consider it a blessing to produce a homosexual male within the lineage. The sons that are born gay are usually designated caretakers of the family, as forming a marriage and new family are pretty much out of the question. Berm, being born to a small Hmong tribe in the hills outside of CM, does what is expected of him and every other week or so drives a pickup truck full of supplies and food back home for not just his family, but their whole village. Having done so, he then drives back to CM where he is free to live out his "sinful" life in the big city, away from the prying eyes of loved ones. We didn't spend a whole lot of time together; he was always preoccupied with the goings-on of the construction or he was out-of-town, but it was after one of these supply runs back home, a few weeks into my visit, that our friendship truly cemented.

I had just returned home to Santitham from a disturbing night about town, beginning with a stop at a rooftop bar called, lamely enough, THC. As tacky as it sounds, if I boycotted every cheesy sounding bar or club or hangout spot in Thailand, I'd more often than not spend a lonely night at home with only James Westfall and Dr. Kenneth Noisewater to keep me company. Anyhow, the disturbance began when believe it or not, the cops stopped by the bar to do a surprise search, seizure, manhandle, and drug-test on most of my fellow patrons. You read correctly; they performed actual drug-tests right there on the premises. For some reason or other I escaped their machinations, though I wasn't worried, having been unable to find any sign of my favorite vice (need I identify) in over two weeks on Thai soil. The guy standing next to me assured me that, had I been searched/tested, being a farang, it was just a simple matter of slipping the cop a few hundred Baht to turn the other cheek. "In fact," he went on,"they'll even escort you to the nearest ATM if you don't have the desired amount." The situation was disturbing nonetheless.

To compound my already considerable anxiety, I took a wrong turn on the way home and ended up riding my bicycle down CM's equivalent of Gainesville's Depot Ave. at around one in the a.m. I wasn't necessarily frightened of the neighborhood anything, it's just that areas like this become completely claimed by canines during late-night hours, and it takes nothing short of an escort by the Royal Guard to venture such neighborhoods unscathed. Mangy packs of these flea-bitten beasts patrolled the now-empty sidewalks and streets, and I was very much an unwelcome guest. I mean these motherfuckers chase cars and scooters that drive through on the late-night tip. And now here's some schwilly farang coming through on a damn bicycle that don't even ride right.

I made it through the first wave ok; it had only been three or four smaller dogs, outcasts probably, and they quickly dispersed when I raised my hand and voice in a menacing manner. Congratulating myself, not realizing that I had only survived the phalanx battalion of an ensuing onslaught, I pedaled onward. The only thing that saved me from a middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital was what seemed like a turf battle between two larger packs of dogs, each platooning from used-car dealerships on opposite sides of the street, and me cycling right through the crossfire, drunker than ten long-necked Thais.

The two armies were so embroiled in their battle, that they hardly noticed me before I had time to u-turn the shit out of there. But when they finally noticed, all inter-species animosity was forgotten. They joined forces en masse; one giant cohesive, frothing organism intent on one purpose: bite the shit out of that thing with two legs. This is where I thank my nonsensical ass for buying that no-brakes-having track bike I rode around town for a year before my departure, because I pedaled up all the cartilage in my knees getting away from those damn dogs.

The snarling beasts soon remembered their previous quarrel, and gave up on chasing me to continue tearing each others throats out. Having at last gained some breathing room, I slowed down enough to realize that I had no choice but to slow down. My bike was busted up; groaning in response to the torture I had just put it through, and to top it off, I had a flat tire. Flatter than a piece of hammered shit, to quote Whitney Ellsworth. I must've run over a broken bottle or something in my frenzied retreat. Or maybe one of the dogs had actually gotten a piece, and I'd find a tooth embedded in the rubber later on. Either way, I calculated that I had about a three-mile walk home. So I got to walkin. Of course, I had to pass through that first pack of upstarts, and it seemed that they had formed a new strategy. One of the dogs appeared in the middle of the street directly in front of me, forcing me to either side. When I pulled my broken bicycle up the sidewalk to drift around the dog, who appeared to be paying me no attention, his fellow soldiers flanked me from behind a dumpster. These pooches were only intent on scaring the shit out of me, they had no real bite, but after what I had just been through, I was pretty goddamn frayed. I tell you, these streets breed dogs with balls worthy of velociraptors.

I finally arrived home, and ran into Berm who had just pulled into town from his village run. I told him about my whole night's debacle, and he just laughed and said, "Mai pehn rai" which is basically Thai for, "Fuck it." (not really, it means never mind or no problem, but that's how I interpreted it at that point). Then he said three words that made it all worth it, or at least a lot better. "You want smoke?" We preceded to smoke some silly mountain skunk out of a make-shift bong that made my eyes turn yellow. Hanging out in the tranquil Santitham courtyard, mumbling and giggling to each other in equal parts broken-English/Thai, me berating him for not asking me to smoke sooner, him berating me for not having asked, having been just a few weeks before culturally and geographically, and still sexually thousands of miles apart, my first Thai friendship was formed.

A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 2: Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep, or Buddha's Shoulder Blade and the Legend of the White Elephant

Legend has it that a Buddhist monk, sometime in the 14th Century, found a relic in Pang Cha that was believed to be the shoulder blade of none other than Buddha himself. After taking the bone to Northern Thailand and presenting it to King Nu Naone of the Lannas, it was placed on the back of a white elephant that was then released into the jungle somewhere around present-day Lamphun, not far from Chiang Mai. The albino pachyderm eventually wandered up to the summit of Doi Suthep, trumpeted three times and then collapsed in death at the site of which is now Wat Phrathat, one of the holiest temples in Thailand.

On my first trip up to the magical mountain, that first week in Thailand, I didn't expect to be accompanied by two rude, loud-mouth Americans from NYC, but even their constant jibber-jabbering could not tarnish the mystical air that surrounded the temple upon our approach. A friend of Berm's had agreed to take the three of us up in his car for a small sum, and after 30-minutes of winding mountain road, we arrived at the base of the temple. It was early in the evening, around six o'clock, but most of the visitors and tourists had already dispersed for the day. The temple had not closed, in fact I don't think it ever closes, and our late arrival proved to be the perfect opportunity to witness the monks in their normal evening routines, without the distraction of crowds of onlookers.

The long and steep stair-case from the parking lot to the golden pagodas of the temple-proper gave me ample time to distance myself from my annoying companions, as they repeatedly had to stop for breath. I told them I'd see them at the summit and left them behind. As I climbed the 300-and-some stone steps with the help of what looked like ivory hand-rails, a steady and serene hum filled the air, slowly drowning out the drone of cicadas, or whatever Thailand's equivalent is to that loud-ass bug. When I finally reached the top, what little air I still had in my lungs was immediately robbed by the utterly staggering pulchritude of the temple grounds, particularly the large phallic pagoda of gold (or golden chedi, as they're referred to in Thailand) protruding from the center. It was certainly unlike anything I had ever seen in my sheltered American life.

I wandered the grounds for a little while, basking in the spiritually-charged, mountain-cool evening air. I discovered a roomful of meditating monks as the source of the serendipitous hum, and another breath-taking sight: an extensive balcony with a stunning overlook view of Chiang Mai; the city lit up in the early evening and pulsating with life. I must have been some 6000 feet elevated with an entity of over one-million people at my feet. I couldn't fucking wait to take pictures in the daytime, as my puny camera only came up blurs. With the monks slowly making their way to bed, I realized I'd have to come back some other time to get the full Doi Suthep experience, so I met up with the wenches from New York and we made our way to the exit. On our way out, one more surreal sight, this one a little contradictory to everything preceding it. A couple of younger monks, late-teens, sitting off to the side in the dark, with a small hand-held radio in their hands listening to the sultry sounds of Celine Dion. Fucking Thailand, man. Still, I couldn't wait to return.