Thais - They're just like US!

This is something I've been wanting to do, but haven't been able to until I got to a place where I could upload photos. There are more, but I can only handle so much photo uploading in one day... so keep your eyes peeled for the installments to follow, of a little chapter I like to call :

Thais - They're just like US!

They hang their clothes to dry!

They get bored at work!

<--- bubblewrap














They have a tough time spelling foreign words!














They have street carts with coffee! (The cans are used for shaking the milk and coffee and sugar together - yum.)




And they sell nuts on the street, too!




















They have organized, clean subways, that run on time-- JUST LIKE NEW YORK!












AND they even commit a fashion faux-paux here and there. Looks like someone forgot his belt at home today, oops!

They value customer service...
("We Want You Be Happy" aw, shucks)

And they're up to date on current affairs!

All in all, it's been an easy transition. Who would have guessed they'd be so much LIKE US?

mekong youkong

Well this is a bit late, and while I worte it long after the fact, I thought I published it way back when. Anyway, here 'tis:


We went from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai, spent the day in the outskirts of Chiang Rai, then the following day drove to the river to get on this boat that Mom swore up and down was not going to be uncomfortable or affected by the rainy weather, because : "my 80 year old friends recommended it to me, so how bad could it be?" She said it like that is a good thing. Attempting to communicate reassurance, I was not comforted.

So it was not surprising that once we crossed the river to Laos in the rain on a tiny little long boat to get our visas, that the hot frenchmen who I had been chatting with kept going straight when we stopped in to our check in to our tour. There were a group of older white haired Brits, who wore socks with sandals and took turns while speaking. "By golly George," Blanche said while checking her timepiece, "it's nearly time for a snackie, wouldn't you say?" It was 9am. George said something in an accent so thick I couldn't tell what he responded, but apparently it was hil-ar-ious, because they all laughed in unison. Cue iPod.

Once we got our visas and our luggage on the boat, we got comfortable. I of course chose the table with the guys who were under 40, mom went for comfort over company, and Sarah bee lined to the front of the boat where she could smoke. Cue Don DeLillo.

I must admit, I immediately stereotyped everyone one the boat within the first few hours. What else are you going to do for 7+ hours on a boat? Mountain scenery and trees only entertains you for so long. The interesting part is not that my preconceptions were shattered by the end of day 2 (they in some cases were), but that for the most part were spot on: each person fit into his or her regional stereotype perfectly... with we Americans headlining the playbill.

Canadians (4): A 30 something woman traveling with her elderly father, who I think was only there to amuse his daughter. She had a nose ring and a short man haircut circa 1990, and wore socks with her tivas. She had one diamond ring on her left ring finger, and it looked like it was either from HSN or Debeers. She dressed for comfort and practically, and had a fanny pack that she never took off, even when she was wearing her backpack - which was always. Her dad was old and distinguished, and neither spoke to the other for the entire two day trip. They just sat on different benches, near but never across from one another, and read books that they admitted to having read before. But not to each other. They were traveling with another Canadian couple, a retired couple of childless teachers who seemed to have come to Asia to document their benevolence. Because, you know, it isn't good unless you can show your friends back home how philanthropic you are. When scouring one of two scheduled stops at hill tribe villages, the husband actually had his wife re-walk the path from the boat with candy in hand to give to the begging children, because his camcorder wasn't on the first time. Day 2 this man bought whiskey from the 2nd scheduled hill tribe and got hammered before noon. "We're Canadian, this is how we stay warm," he breathed. Touche.

Swiss (4): 2 interracial couples, and none of them from Switzerland, all of them men. One from Holland, one from Germany, one from Belgium, and the last one from the Czech Republic. 3 lawyers, one anesthesiologist. The German was extremely interested in American politics, and was happy to inform us of the world's view of America, which I will spare you (this was pre-election, by the way). They all also loved to talk about chocolate, and were happy to break their diets when we shared our Sees candies.

Young British guys (2): Very pale. Lawyer, AdMan. Made extremely dry, sarcastic and snarky comments aloud and unabashedly about most everyone and everything, but no matter how funny they were I'm pretty sure they were the only two in on the jokes. Became weak in the knees when I mentioned "fish and chips."

Northern Californians (2): A recent college grad traveling with his very hip and worldly mother. She looked very bohemian and all her clothes were native to somewhere far away and probably one of a kind. She had really chunky jewelry that I was envious of, and she had a lot of good information on places in s.e. asia to visit. He was a good source of info for places where backpackers liked to party.

You can imagine where we (3) fit into all this, and that by the end of day one, at the river lodge, mom and I were sitting with the Swiss dudes sharing wine and sticking our noses in the air at the stiff old Brits who otherwise stayed in a completely isolated part of the boat. By the time we got to Laos, we had exchanged emails, phone numbers, and home addresses with nearly all of them, with open house policies instated across the board. Interlaken, anyone?

I went to Chiang Rai, and all I got ... was attacked by a monkey.

When I last wrote, we were leaving Chiang Mai by car, and headed to Chiang Rai, which is north a few hours, closer to the border of Myanmar. Unfortunately I can't upload pictures here at this internet cafe, so you will just have to let me try to describe the experience, and I can load pictures later. It'll be kinda like reading the book, and seeing the movie after the fact, hopefully your imaginations will sustain you til then.

Our first (and only) full day in Chiang Rai was to be spent driving to the Golden Triangle, and making stops along the way. The golden triangle is a spot that looks over the Mekong River, from where Thailand, Myanmar, Laos, and China can all be seen. SNOOZE ALERT! I mean, it's cool and all, but it takes a whole day and we had planned on stopping at more wats to make the trip more interesting. "We" as in Mom, and "planned" as in hell no give me that Lonely Planet. I saw immediately something way cooler and what would make the trip to the Four Corners equivalent worth while: CAVES. Awesome, I think. This will be cool: Stalagmites and stalactites, underground lakes and crystals, and, let's face it: Manbearpig central. I point it out to the driver, who, with a wince and alternate suggestion, would change my life as I know it. "No good, rain make no drive. Monkey cave is better, I show you." Little did I know, who would show whom.

The drive through the mountains was incredible, the northern parts of Thailand are so green and tropical, not much unlike Hawaii. The humidity, the random rains, the incredible variations of green, the low fog that looks like mold on the crevices of far off tree covered mountains, endless rice fields and banana trees (plants? I'm too lazy and it's costing me kip to write this so I'm not going to fact check this one)... it really is a beautiful country. Then the urban aspects of Thailand remind me much of Mexico: the cars, 8 people in the back of pick up trucks or just as many on one motor bike, the buildings and carts selling food in the streets. Thailand has many more reminders, though, of their culture and government. You'll be driving down the road and all of a sudden there will be a huge billboard of their King. Or, several km down the same road, there will be a big sparkly red and gold ornamented gate, that looks more Chinese than Thai.

Anyway. It was one of these random towns where we finally stopped, we were let out to walk across this 2 plank, rickety makeshift bridge that was placed more than built, because the mud from the rain was so eroded that there was no more bridge to drive across. It was only a km or two down to the cave anyway, so we walked. The people were going about their merry business, and as has been consistent throughout our travels, they were extremely friendly but indifferent enough so that it didn't seem superficial. They pointed us in the direction of the cliffs, where the monkeys were. Sure enough, at the end of the road, there was a wooden cut out in the shape of a monkey, with a big stick figure smiley face painted on. This is where I made my mistake, my guard was down because of this false advertising. Smiling monkeys! Wow we must be in luck, I thought as I walked toward the big lake, where I saw other locals.

I was so not prepared for this many monkeys. They were everywhere: in the trees. On the roof of the public bathroom. On the ground running by my feet. On the bridge by the monks who brought school children there to see the Koi and monkeys up close. The locals were selling buckets of bananas and peanuts for people to hand to the monkeys themselves. Sarah bought two buckets and went to the task of distributing to those most worthy, after long discussions and instructions to those that gathered 'round her. I started snapping away. Then I noticed the locals had slingshots, and long pole vaulting bamboo sticks... but why? How dare they try to abuse these poor little innocents, who just wanted to come smile at the curious. I have my iphone (yes, I still have it), so I kneel down to get up close and personal. The sweetest monkey comes shyly up to me and even reaches his hand out to touch my bag (I know, aaaaawwwwwww). Then, like a bat out of hell, this guy selling bananas and koi food grabs his bamboo stick and runs at my monkey with aspirations of impalement. My little friend runs away screaming, and I stand up frustrated that I only got a profile shot. I look over at Sarah who is surrounded, talking with her monkey entourage, while they greedily grab her bananas. It's monkeypalooza over there. I decide to get away from these trigger happy Thai and go a little closer to where some cars are parked, near the trees and away from the koi lake and mountainside.

That's where I see him: huddled in the back of a pick up truck. I walk over to the other side and aim my camera. He isn't distracted by his new audience, so I do what you're supposed to do. "Hey, you monkey!" I suggest. "Look over here. Hey!" Nothing. Kiss kiss, click click. Let me tell you, if you ever want to get a monkey's attention, hit something hollow and made from tin or metal, like the back of a pick up truck. In one swift movement, the stupid jerk turns and one-two steps to slam dunk my head with his fangs bared and a taste for blood in his eyes.

Now, this is where my spider senses, cat like reflexes and overall grasshopper agility kicked in: I serenely focused on my assailant, crouched down and leaped to karate chop that monkey fucker right down the middle. At which point, the evil spell he had on the other monkeys was instantly broken, and everyone cheered because I saved the day. Eyewitness accounts might suggest I simply flinched, squealed, and ran away in hysterical laughter for fear of bursting into tears, but they don't speak a word of english so you won't be hearing any eyewitness accounts.

We did hike to the cave, 200 meters up and literally the steepest stairs I've ever climbed. Worse than the bell tower in Sienna, worse than the most difficult in Cinque Terre. No Joke. But it was worth it, it was like Indiana Jones up there, exposed tree roots and winding paths into the dark dark cave with bats inside. The rest of the day was spent pulling the "leave me alone I was attacked by a monkey" card. The Golden Triangle, in all fairness to the event coordinator aka momma Jean, was actually kinda cool. Plus we got to drink from a coconut, which was appropriately and symbolically tribal. We got to go to the border of Myanmar (much like the border towns in Mexico), and buy a whole bunch of stuff that was later shipped home. I think nearly every town we've stopped in, mom sent home a box :) ok ok exaggeration, but barely. So don't be surprised if you get something Asian for Christmas!

I'll have to save the river trip for another post, because it's time to go. It was fun, over all. Met some cool people, talked some politics. Luang Prabang is so small we have already run into most of them and we just got here last night. Mom and Connie and I met some of our river cruise companions and watched the CNN polls come in while eating breakfast at a place downtown, and as it got closer to lunch and closer to conclusion time, the place was pretty full. Once it was announced Obama won, everyone -- an old Chinese couple, a table of Aussie backpackers, the Laotian workers, and many more -- in unison all cheered and clapped for America's choice in the President elect. I even spilled a little water from my eyeballs. I know, I'm cheesy, but I was proud.

this&that

Here are a few things I've learned since I have been here:

- The amount of timezones you jump is equivalent to the amount of days it takes you to adjust from jetlag.

- In Thailand, the spoon is used as a fork and the fork is used as a knife. It is just as strange to put a fork in your mouth in Thai culture as it would be for someone to eat with their knife. Also, chopsticks are only used with noodle soups.

- They are very proud of their king. You can't put currency with his image on it in your back pocket, nor should you lick a stamp with his image on it. There are sponges for that.

- On the other hand, some Thai ambassador's wife who is a famous socialite and is considered a beauty, looks like this:


















- It is entirely possible that God likes Thai food best because He made it the tastiest.

- Traditional Thai massage is unlike any massage I have ever had (and I have been around the massage block a few times). You lay on a mat on the floor, and are dressed in silk garments they provide. There are no pretensions: no music or aroma therapy, no fancy sitting rooms or procedure. They do, however, put their fingers in your ears at one point. And it helps if you're flexible.

- There are numerous opportunities to volunteer: their environment needs lots of help and they are desperate for teachers, who are much more highly respected than in the states (read: volunteer/job opportunities for Katy)!

- Many Europeans question the life expectancy of the dollar, since our economy is crap and we export next to nothing, those we import from are less likely to give the dollars back to us and instead put them in other investments.

- I also wonder why we think our government (who imposed the Patriot Act and was compliant with the Chinese in censoring the people's access to the internet) wouldn't censor our online accessibility. Limiting foreign criticisms and overall information about the U.S., like a reverse propaganda. Would it be so far fetched, when the majority of the internet developed under this administration? I mean China did it, why wouldn't G.W.? Even the BBC is totally watered down, American BBC. After learning what is common knowledge from a foreigner's point of view about our policies and politics, it seems more and more likely. I guess I'll find out soon enough...

Not bad for only leaving the premises once since I've been here... Pi cooks for us every night and every morning, with leftovers for lunch, and it is incredible. We ate in town once yesterday, but were sure to make it home by 7 in time for dinner!

We leave Saturday afternoon for Chiang Rai. Sunday we tour the Golden Triangle, on the Burmese border. Mai Sae, I think it's called. I guess it used to be the capital for opium production, which seems appropriate because I watched American Gangster on the way over here (which was Vietnam, I know, but still). Then we go down the Mekong!

Tonight we go to the night bazaar in Chiang Mai, which is about 20 minutes outside of Bor Sang (where we're staying). Peter takes us into town whenever we need to go... I have never had more gracious hosts in all of my travels. They are so incredibly helpful, and informative, always ready to assist -- call a friend to find out where to buy the best umbrellas or how to send packages, we mention once we like Tom Yum soup and it's homemade fresh by dinnertime. Granted we are paying them to stay here, but their kindness and generosity is above and beyond, to say the least. I am excited for the adventures to come, but I'll be sad to leave The Secret Garden.

Tangible Surrealism, aka: This Can't Be Real

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.