Tears in Pai

The next day in Pai was an emotional one for me. It was one of my lower points on the trip. I was homesick for Scott and disappointed to find out that I wouldn’t be working with sea turtles again that summer. Calling my mom on her birthday just made me more homesick. When we took the motorbike outside of Pai that morning on our way to Huay Nam Dong National Park, the scariest part of the whole trip happened (at least it was the scariest part for me). We were driving up winding hills that curved back and forth as we gained elevation. I think both Malone and I knew it would happen, but there was nothing we could do about it. Up ahead, the bend was completely covered with pine needles. We skidded out on the needles and the motorbike fell onto its side, spilling us into the street. I sort of had to jump away from the bike so it wouldn’t crush me or so we wouldn’t crush each other. It hurt. We were so lucky that a truck or car had not been following us. I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened. As it was, Malone had a terribly bruised knee, and my knee and ankle were cut open and half of my big toenail had been scraped off by the pavement. We picked the bike up and kept going to the park, but as soon as we got there, I lost it. I cried because I was scared to get back on the motorbike to drive back, because I was homesick, and because my knee hurt. I guess I was just overwhelmed and needed to let it out. Unfortunately, my tears put a damper on the morning, and it was hard to enjoy the view of the park, though it was absolutely beautiful and the day was sunny and filled with color.



We hung around at the park for only a little while before we returned to Pai. I think we were both a little hesitant to explore the park on the bike, since many of the roads were unpaved and bumpy. And our legs hurt from the fall, so it wasn’t really worth finding any trails to walk on, either. So we went back to Pai, and I tried to relax with a hot shower and some downtime.

Another reason that my emotions were high was that Scott was worried about me. It made me anxious; I knew that if he was worried about me, it was possible that something could actually happen to me. I felt very vulnerable and very subject to injury, especially after the motorbike fall. At the night market in Pai a day or two before, I had seen a woman in a wheelchair being pushed around by a man who was singing into a microphone. They were collecting money. The woman had no legs. She had no arms either. One of her arms was missing after the elbow, but the other was missing even higher up than that. We would see many limbless people in northern Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia: results of the unexploded ordinances left by US soldiers during the Vietnam War. The US soldiers crossed into Laos and Cambodia without permission from those countries, and the landmines are still injuring and killing people today. It is the most heart-wrenching memory of my trip: that these innocent people—farmers, children, just people out walking in the woods—have lost their limbs and sometimes their livelihoods. I read somewhere about a flower that scientists had genetically engineered to detect landmines. The flowers are white, but when they detect the chemicals present in the landmines, they turn red. I imagine parents teaching their children to never go near those red flowers. It makes me want to cry.

I spent Valentine’s Day in Pai, and I don’t remember what we did. My journal just says “Another day in Pai,” and the rest of the text is just reflection. Perhaps it was a day of relaxation: reading, writing, enjoying food, the night market, the sunset, etc. Scott left a video on my Facebook wall of him singing “Half Moon” by Iron and Wine, and that song still brings back memories of being in northern Thailand without him and missing him like crazy. But on the 15th, Malone and I spent our last morning in Pai. It was time to move on. We had our last breakfast in Pai, bummed around near the bus station for a while, then took a mini-bus back to Chiang Mai.

Our stay in Chiang Mai was quick. We went back to the Little Bird Guest House, had some dinner, then went to the night market. I had left my sunglasses in the mini-bus, so I bought a pair at the market, as well as some gifts: silk change purses, a wooden bookmark with a metal engraving, a flower carved out of soap, a ceramic pipe, an alligator carved out of jade, an ink drawing of an elephant. The following morning, we packed our things again, had breakfast, and took a 5-hour bus ride south to Sukhothai, the ancient Thai capital. Our beds at the Garden House were as hard as the floor, and the air was hot and filled with mosquitoes. But we were moving forward with our travels after our long stay in Pai.

Waterfalls

We went back to Pai because we liked it, but I guess we also went back because we didn’t really have a plan. The WWOOFing that we had hoped to do—volunteering on organic farms—wasn’t working out. Every place we contacted had no space for us. This was the point of our trip where I realized that we were basically on a long vacation.

The bus from Soppong back to Pai was crowded. Malone was lucky enough to get a seat… lucky, that is, until the seat in front of her collapsed into her lap, and she spent the rest of the ride holding it up with her knees. I was stuck standing in the aisle the whole time, with a tiny Thai girl in her parents’ laps to my left, and two novice monks, about ten years old, standing in front of me. The smaller of the two monks was leaning his head on the other’s shoulder. It looked as if he were sleeping, though he was standing up. When the two got off the bus, I saw one of the monks take out his cell phone and make a call. It was such a startling image: a ten-year-old boy—bedecked in orange robes, hair shaved close to his head—talking on a cell phone in northern Thailand.


We settled back in at the Darling View Guest House. This time, we got our own private room, which was actually cheaper than renting beds in the dorm room. Our room had its own porch, overlooking the valley, with a hammock and benches and lots of pink flowers. We stayed in Pai for five nights, simply because we were content there. It was quiet, peaceful, and beautiful, and it was a safe place to explore on our own.


On our second day, we rented a motorbike and drove along some dirt roads past farmland, small bungalows, stray dogs, and banana trees. We parked at the trailhead that led to Mae Sen Waterfall. What we thought would be a short stroll to the falls turned out to be an all day hike—too bad we hadn’t packed food and only had half a bottle of water between us! It took us about two and a half hours to get to the falls, and two and a half hours to get back. I confess that Malone could have completed the hike much more quickly, but then again, her legs are twice as long as mine. My difficulties hiking were compounded by the fact that sand from the riverbanks was getting stuck beneath the straps of my sandals, rubbing my skin raw and giving me blisters. Despite these complaints, the hike was beautiful, with banana trees, pale purple flowers, and vines that twisted between the trees. We had to cross the cold creek several times—back and forth, back and forth—to stay on the trail, which could not remain on one side of the water because of the rock faces that emerged. We scrambled over some boulders as we got closer to the falls. When we arrived, the falls greeted us in three long curves of white water sliding down the rock face. Water collected in a small pool at the base, and pale blue butterflies clustered above the sandy beach. Walking back to the motorbike, the afternoon sunlight was golden through the forest, and the cold water was soothing on my hot feet. Cold water, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a dish of pad Thai never tasted so good as when we returned from our hike!



The next morning, we took the motorbike to the Pai Hot Springs. It was cool on the bike in the morning, especially in the shade, but the scenery was wonderful: a patch of dry, autumn-like forest, with dry leaves on the ground and leaves browning in the trees; one tree with orange blossoms, the color of monks’ robes; a cattle pasture and small farms; two straw huts in a field; a tall, straight eucalyptus tree on the side of the road; small plantations of tall, skinny trees with sparse, dry leaves the size of dinner plates; stray dogs; old women walking; lots of green; views of the mountains; sunshine and shade. We saw our first elephants at Pai’s elephant camp; some were walking along the road, and we had to move into the opposite lane to pass them!

We weren’t prepared to go inside the hot springs—I guess we didn’t really know it was allowed—so we just dipped our feet in for a while. The park itself was very quaint, with stone walls and a walking path. We walked past some of the hotter springs that sent steam into the cool morning air. The hottest spring had a sign—“No boil egg”—which was even funnier than seeing the bag of eggs boiling in the one before it.




After the hot springs, we drove to Pam Bok Waterfall, which wasn’t as impressive as the falls we saw the day before. The good thing about this waterfall, though, was that we didn’t have to hike the entire day to get there—it was only a 150 meter walk. The falls were a bit dry, but the short walk was nice. The path squeezed between boulders and cliffs, and smaller pools of water created short water falls. A rickety bridge crossed the stream of water. The drive back to Pai showed us more of the beautiful countryside: mountain, valley, and farmland. After returning the motor bike, we put on some sunscreen and went down to the Pai Riverside to have a drink and read and relax. I dipped my feet in the water while Malone borrowed somebody’s tube to float down the river. Though the afternoon sun was hot, we had to be sure to shower before the sun went down, because the evenings and nights in Pai were quite crisp!



Watching the sunset that evening in Pai, I wrote in my journal: “I could have this view forever.”

Butterflies in Thailand

When we woke up in the morning, it was cold out, and mist shrouded the mountains. We sat by a small fire, where water for lemongrass tea was boiling in a large black kettle. We ate chunks of pineapple, papaya, mango, and watermelon, then rice with milk and honey. Albert ate with us, though Susanan didn’t.



Once breakfast was finished, Albert’s neighbor came over to give us a traditional weaving lesson. I never got the woman’s name, and she didn’t speak any English; she just showed us what to do with hand motions and shaking of her head. She set up the backstrap loom for us. I could never recreate the maze of strings she set up for the loom, but once it was ready, we sat on the kitchen porch for at least two hours, weaving colorful belts. It was fun and a cool project to do, but my back was killing me as I sat there, strapped into my project. I couldn’t get up until it was finished, because Albert’s neighbor was there to help and supervise, and I couldn’t explain to her that my back hurt. So it was a painful couple of hours until I finished my weaving. When it was finished, lunch was a welcome and delicious break: rice, scrambled eggs, and mixed vegetables. That description doesn’t do the food justice. If I knew the spices involved in this meal, I would be an amazing cook.


Knowing that we didn’t want to spend another afternoon sitting around, Malone and I took a walk to the river. We walked all the way down the steep hill that the motorbike taxis had taken us up, to the main road, then down to the river. The water was cold, so I wasn’t tempted to go in, but it was nice to sit on the sandy beach to absorb some sunlight. There were a few Lisu women in the river, fully-clothed, catching crawfish. I read amidst the many butterflies fluttering around my head—the whole time I was in northern Thailand, I was always thinking about Andrew Bird’s song “Skin is, My,” which has a line about butterflies in Thailand. Eventually, when I got hot enough, I went in the water. It was difficult to make the final plunge under the water because it was so cold, but it was certainly refreshing, especially since the running water at Albert’s had stopped working. It was a peaceful afternoon with flowers, the buzzing of insects, bright sunlight, cold water, and cool shade. It was a long, hot walk back up the hill to Albert’s, but a dinner of dill soup and mashed potatoes with chilis was filling (and spicy).



As it got dark, we walked back down the hill with another guest from India to look for an open bar or anything else to do, but we found nothing. Walking back up the steep hill in the cool night was much easier, and we were treated with a dessert of black beans and rice with coconut milk before bed. An older Australian couple had arrived to stay at Albert’s, and their guide was entertaining. In the morning, we all had breakfast together before walking back down the hill for the last time to catch the bus from Soppong back to Pai. The homestay wasn’t everything we had hoped; it mainly consisted of good food and some peaceful down-time—not quite the cultural experience we were looking for—so we were ready to return to Pai, that magical place that stole our hearts. If I could choose any place in Thailand to return to, it would be Pai.

Dust and Celebration

The bus ride to Soppong was incredibly crowded, and Malone and I couldn’t sit together. I sat behind the driver, right next to the engine, which felt like it was going to burn my feet off, it was so hot. We drove up and down winding mountain roads for about an hour. A Coke bottle was rolling up and down the aisle, and the driver asked somebody to pick it up. I was surprised to see the woman who picked it up throw it straight out the window onto the roadside. This was the first example of littering, the effects of which I would see nearly every day for the rest of the trip. Traditionally, people in Southeast Asia used natural materials, such as banana leaf, to wrap their food or package their goods. It would make sense to simply toss the banana leaf back into the forest, where it came from. The problem is that people there do the same thing with all of the plastic they use—they just throw it out the window. And they use plastic bags for everything. For example, if I bought a can of soda, they would put it in a mini plastic bag and throw a plastic straw in for good measure. I tried to avoid collecting so many plastic bags, knowing they might end up on the roadsides eventually.

When we got to Soppong, it didn’t really look like we had arrived anywhere. The street was dusty. There was something like a flea market along the side of the road, but it didn’t really seem like anyone was around. We spent a few frustrated minutes trying to figure out how the pay phone worked. Finally, it did, and we called Albert, the man in charge of the Lisu Hill Tribe homestay we had arranged. He directed us to the motor taxis that were parked a little ways down the road. If you’ve ever ridden on the back of a motorbike with a 45 pound pack on your back up a very steep hill, then I don’t need to tell you how terrifying it was. For those of you who haven’t—it was terrifying. But we made it to the top and were dropped off at a wooden gate. We tentatively walked inside the fenced area. There was nobody around. All we could see were roosters and chickens, a pig pen, and a lot of dirt. We hesitantly walked around until Albert finally emerged and gave us a tour of the place. Albert was a tall, hunched over man in his fifties or sixties. He was a former psychologist from Chicago. He had moved to Thailand about seven years ago and married Susanan, a Lisu woman. What I found most strange about this relationship was that Albert had been living in this community for several years and had learned barely a word of Lisu or Thai. Susanan spoke some English, but the whole thing seemed very strange from the beginning.


In any case, we dropped our bags off in our room. There were shutters on the windows, but they didn’t keep out any bugs. There was nothing but a mattress on the floor. We went with Albert up the street, where the community was gathered for the last day of the week-long New Year’s festival. The Lisu women were dressed in traditional costume, as they dressed most days, but the men, who typically didn’t dress in their traditional clothing, were also festively dressed. We sat around a long table, and women who had been cooking all day served us food. Most of it had meat in it, so I couldn’t eat much other than some rice and cabbage. People from five neighboring villages were there, and Albert explained that it was “courting time” for the young men and women and that they were all looking their best. He also told us that the women wearing black hats were already married. A hundred feet or so from where people were gathered to eat was the dancing floor. Albert explained that some tribes only dance in a circle, while others only dance in a wheel-spoke formation. The man leading the dance was in the center, playing a string instrument and choosing the footwork. We watched the dance for a while before going back to our accommodations, where I took a nap, then sat on our porch and read.


Our first afternoon in Soppong was a little disorienting. We soon realized that we were not there to be entertained in any way and that we had to find things to do for ourselves. The community received us with what seemed to be indifference. After a somewhat boring afternoon sitting up on our porch, Albert invited us down to cook dinner. The kitchen was a separate structure with dirt floors and tarps hanging for walls. We sat on small stools on the floor, cutting up vegetables to make a soup: onion, tomato, mushrooms, cauliflower, aubergines, cilantro, parsley, dill, garlic, soy sauce, and coconut milk. We ate it with rice, and it was actually delicious. If nothing else knocked my socks off about Soppong, the food we ate was wonderful and filling. Despite the cold mountain air and numerous wake-up calls by roosters, we managed to sleep through the night.

I Heart Pai

It’s been just over a year since the next part of my story. On February 7, 2011, we left early in the morning and boarded a bus from Chiang Mai to Pai. This bus trip was nothing like the last—this was no double-decker coach bus with snacks included. The bus was sort of like an old school bus in the US. Instead of AC, actual fans hung from the ceiling, and they were much needed—it was hot! The seats were hard and uncomfortable and the bus was crowded. Since we were heading further north and a little bit to the west, close to the Myanmar border, the bus stopped at a checkpoint and Thai military officials came on board to check passports. I was nervous at first, but they barely even looked at ours—it was enough that we were white and clearly tourists. They weren’t concerned about us.

When we arrived in Pai, I didn’t immediately recognize its charm. It was a very small town—the bus station was merely a parking lot squeezed between two buildings. It wasn’t clear where our hostel was, and some men on motor-taxis were busy trying to convince us that it was too far away to walk. Eventually, we figured it out, and headed across a rickety bamboo bridge and up a hill to the Darling View Guesthouse. Looking back on the trip, this was one of my favorite places. The Guesthouse was amazing. Up on a hill, it overlooked the valley and mountains beyond. It was facing the west, and each evening we were privy to amazing sunsets. As hot as it was during the day, it cooled down beautifully at night—it was one of the only times that we needed long pants and sweatshirts.



Our first night in Pai, we stayed in a dorm-style bedroom, with large, comfy mattresses on the floor. It felt so good to sleep in those beds, with the cool mountain air coming in through the window. The porch outside of our room was filled with hammocks and lounge chairs. We sat on the porch in the afternoon sun, relaxing and reading, and eating lunch. We took time to explore the town, then raced back up the hill to watch the sunset from the porch, and in the darkening night, headed back down the hill to town to eat dinner at what would become our favorite restaurant. I ordered the same meal nearly every time we went there: a Mango Delight fruit shake—made from mango, the reddest strawberries you’ve ever seen, and lime—and a sandwich of roasted eggplant, red peppers, and other vegetables with fresh greens and feta cheese. I would go back to Pai just to eat at that restaurant again!


Pai was a very hippie, very touristy town, and I’m not surprised that people traveled there to stay for long periods of time. There were many white people around, and many local businesses catered to tourists, which probably helped me ease into the completely different culture. That night, we walked around the night market, where Lisu Hill Tribe women sold handmade change purses and a local artist sold hand-painted postcards. Of course, there were also the cheap, touristy souvenirs, but there were certainly some beautiful handcrafted items.

Our first visit to Pai was brief, but we soon realized that we wanted to return. We left Pai the next morning after a breakfast of crepes with honey, watermelon, scrambled eggs, tomato, and pineapple juice. (I really ate big breakfasts while I was in Asia—it definitely gave me the energy I needed for a full day of traveling/touring/trekking.) Before we caught our bus to Soppong, I walked a mile to the post office to mail my first letter to Scott and a birthday present to my mother. The people at the post office were very helpful, but it was a new experience—I actually tied my package shut with a piece of string! It was my first of many visits to post offices in Asia so that my love letters could travel all the way to Culver Lake, New Jersey…

Huay Tung Thao

On our second full day in Chiang Mai, I woke up feeling rather sick. Whether it was the ice in the Coke they gave me on the bus ride, the fried veggies I ate at the roadside stand on the way from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, or something else, I don’t know, but it was time for the antibiotics. I tried to nibble on some toast for breakfast, then went back to the hostel to lay down while Malone went off in search of a map.

When she returned, my stomach had started to settle, so we started to walk around town in search of a motorbike to rent. Everybody in Southeast Asia gets around on motorbikes. You’d be surprised how much can fit on one of these bikes that are smaller than a motorcycle but larger than a scooter. We saw whole families of five or more, including the pet dog, riding on them. Once, in Cambodia, I even saw someone transporting a slaughtered pig. They were dirt cheap to rent. The first place we stopped denied us because we told them we had never driven a motorbike before, but at the second place, we lied, and rented an old green Yamaha bike for less than $10. To fill the gas tank was less than $5, and the gauge stayed above the “Full” mark all day.


Malone drove us out of the city, forcing me to hold on tight. As we left the city limits, the drive became nicer, and we began to see some of the mountains and vegetation. We drove to Huay Tung Thao, a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains and lined with small bamboo huts. We chose one for ourselves, and though the sky was blue and it was a beautiful day, I stayed out of the sun because I was still feeling sick. Malone went swimming and attempted play with two Thai children who were swimming in their clothes. Even though I was too sick to partake, the scenery was beautiful. A young girl sold me watermelon in a plastic bag—the first of many such packets of tropical fruit I would buy. The rural surroundings and Thai families enjoying the day made me truly feel I was in a foreign place.


Later that day, we returned the motorbike by traveling down side streets (driving on the actually city streets wasn’t the easiest venture). We went to a smaller night market, closer to our hostel, where I drooled over the colorful bedspreads for sale (I wish I had bought one) and opted for two pillowcases and a mango-wood dish for my mom for her birthday. I went to an internet café after dinner—the first of many where I would spend at least an hour Skyping with Scott—and went to sleep for our last night in Chiang Mai, praying that the antibiotics would be more effective the next day.

This time last year...

It’s been more than six months since I wrote about my trip to Asia. This time last year, I was in planning mode. I had just received my Lonely Planet guidebook for Christmas and was busy getting vaccinated, buying the right gear, packing, and saying my goodbyes to Scott. Now, I’m sitting at the dining room table with Scott as he grades papers, thinking that I should really be making a greater effort to put my trip into story format, complete with pictures. I think back on my trip so often—the landscapes, the people, the food, the weather, how much I missed Scott, my fears and anxieties, my excitement, what a completely different cultural experience it was. I don’t regret anything. I’d do it again. Sometimes, I want to go back, though when I left, I didn’t think I would miss it—the squat toilets; the impossibility of finding vegetarian food; the homesickness; hauling my 40+ pound pack around, day after day; always being on guard in case somebody was trying to rip us off (some of them succeeded); the long and uncomfortable bus rides… But every time I listen to my soundtrack of those months—the two mix CDs Scott had made me and Kiss Each Other Clean by Iron and Wine—I want to be back on one of those buses, staring out at the dry-season’s forests, the bamboo road-side stands filled with cheap snacks and spicy chicken soup, the stray dogs, and the motorbikes racing down curving highways. Maybe I’ll go back… one day.