Peter picks them up in his 2 seater, beater BMW from the 2 terminal airport outside of Chiang Mai. It was only a one hour flight from Bangkok, but they are still jet-lagged from the travels of the past 3 days.
The air is Hawaii-humid. Not the kind of dirty hot, makes you sweat to be outside city-humid, but the thick, moisture seems suspended mid-air humid, just like it seems in those movies about 'Nam.
When Peter picks them up, they're ready for him.
Not that Bangkok wasn't interesting, a fact neither was lucid enough to confirm, but they surmised after less than 24 hours in that anthill of city that they were made for something more, which of course meant something less.
Silently, he loads their bags in the back as they awkwardly thank him, and try to get in the drivers seat. He glares. They realize their mistake, and embarrassed at how American they seem, laugh too loud while correcting their mistake. Looking much like l'inspecteur Cousteau, but with the desire Albert Camus, he is not amused. He watches as they fumble first with the door and then the seat, until everyone is in and ready to go. So, they say. You're Peter. How long have you lived here? They begin with a question to which they already know the answer. He doesn't seem to notice, or else doesn't care to. Too long, he says. He shifts gears in the silence. Twenty five years. They do the math in their heads, 1982-1983. His answer goes unremarked. Shift. It was Mexico before this, and Spain before Mexico. Guadalara. He speaks as though reading a recipe: Start with a quiet land, with native peoples, add small amounts of tourists. Give it time. Years. The natives realize what is in demand, and figure out to make it for cheap, quickly. Eventually the people who know the trade, any trade, they die, and the young ones grow tired of the now tourist-run economy. They leave. Children never learned a craft, just to make money off the foreigners. What's left is a land raped and pregnant, wondering what the fuck just happened, how did I get here and who are you?
They have Guadalajara in common.
In the '70's, it's fresh and green and welcoming, now it's Hooters and Made In China and that's progress.
The road gets smaller like a car antennae erecting, each length smaller, thinner than the stretch before it. He tells them of his property, and becomes more animated as he does so. Slowly over many years, he and his wife Pi added plots of land when they got the money to add, and continued to build bungalows from local hand made materials, down to the individual tiles in the communal kitchen.
It pours rain.
Peter doesn't seem to notice. Even when they reach the Secret Garden, he gets out of the car without consequence, and if you think about the things that matter most, a little rain never hurt anybody.
The property is insular and safe, on the outskirt of the small town of the same quality. In the midst of overripe jungle overgrowth, it's not consumed by it's surroundings. The bungalows are made of dark wood, with beautiful ornate hand carved detail on the furniture and decks, further camouflaging the Secret. The ornaments that style each are completely unique, no two items were bought at the same time or place, making it feel like someone's home. In a way, they realize, it is. Immediately calmed upon entry, they feel they have been here before, but exhilleration and awe suggest otherwise. It's only after they run to take shelter from the rain under the gazebo that the loving nuance, the leftover travel tokens, a compiled shmorgasborg of antiques, culture, and influence are noticed. They now can see why he so passionately discussed the loss of culture in other countries he's lived. He may have added to this land, but he hasn't detracted. Assimilation is key.
They follow the lead of the 3 resident dogs, and get comfortable under the frond roof gazebo. It's not built to look like a palm frond roof, it legitimately is. It's not a manicured, man-made pond with lillypads and frogs, they were here long before Peter and Pi. It's not imported tile that makes the kitchen, designed by a hired professional, the people in town made them by hand and Peter placed them there himself. The octagonal entertainment center is where the eating, drinking, philosophizing, reading, and rumination takes place. For as rustic as this garden oasis is, they barely notice the surround sound Bose speakers that add jazz music as an afterthought. The music does not compete with the birds and insects who take the lead, and can only be heard in lulls. It's probably the only plastic on the property.
There are no more than 10 other bungalows, three of which are currently occupied and two by friends of the newly arrived. Sarah is garrulous, and can't resist explaining, in depth, the obvious: that this place is so unique in it's authenticity that it feels like being at home. She feels this so thoroughly she unintentionally refers to her rented bungalow as "her house."
It's good to be home.
Pi cooks everyday at 5:15, and serves diner at 7:30. Everything is made from local and organic ingredients, and it's obvious this would be the case even if Pi had the choice.
Compared to the 7/11 infestation in Bangkok, this place is outright rural.
Don't think Frances Hodgson Burnett had this in mind.
A breath of fresh air, with plenty more where that came from.
Peter pours them wine.
The only other two occupants are a couple who live here 6 month out of the year, from Europe. He from Holland, she from Belgium. Peter and Benny are drinking buddies, but they aren't even close to a perfect match: Benny drinks during the day, and Peter by night. This poses a problem and each provokes the other throughout the meal they all share. The travelers finally feel settled in. Family style servings lead to family style bickering, discussion, and comradery, and by the time coffee is ready, they're exchanging food and sharing life stories.
It's hard to believe it can get better than this.
