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.
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