Hua Hin, and home

Monday morning on my final week in Thailand, we brave Bangkok’s notorious hell-traffic to reach Hualamphong train station. There, we'll catch a train down to the coastal town of Hua Hin to visit Lian’s 20-year-old niece, Eve. Or at least I think she's a niece --  Lian keeps going back and forth between calling her "my niece" and “my daughter.” I ask why.

“I raise Eve from baby when my sister die,” Lian explains. “To age 9 when she go live my cousin.” I learn something new about this girl every day.

At the train station Lian and I have a George-and-Gracie moment. She is vexed that I’ve purchased a third-class ticket on the local line that leaves in an hour and puts us in Hua Hin around 1:15. Lian hates the local, which stops in every village, and wants to exchange our tickets for the express.

“But the local gets us there by early afternoon,” I try to explain. “The express doesn’t leave here for another three hours and won’t arrive in Hua Hin until after 4.”

Her counter-argument: “Express train goes faster!”

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The local rail line is the only way to travel through Thailand, especially in the dry and hot seasons with the windows down and the breeze keeping everyone cool. Food vendors from the villages work the train both inside and out – a highlight of the ride is this delicious, noodle-like something wrapped in newspaper, which we buy through the window for 20 baht while stopped at a hamlet.

Early afternoon we jump off the train and grab a tuk-tuk to our odd hotel choice, the Hua Hin Golf Villa. Neither of us plays, but the price is reasonable (for pricey Hua Hin), so what the hey.

That evening at the Night Bazaar we finally meet up with the daughter-niece, who turns out to be the very picture of sweet Asian innocence. And now I have two Thai women who are doting over me: refilling my water glass, slipping fresh portions of som tam and fried chicken onto my dinner plate, generally being of service to The Man. That's the way Lian was raised, and it's the way she raised Eve. God, I love this country!

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Another journey ends with the usual all-nighter at Suvarnabhumi Airport, waiting to catch my 5:50 a.m. return flight to the place where I’m from. By now, Lian is somewhere up the tracks on a sleeper train north to Chiang Mai. In America the workday is cranking up as clients lob urgent emails in my direction, as if there were such a thing as “emergency copywriting.” Sorry, guys, I’ll just have to take care of it when I get back.

To be continued …

Smells like Thai spirits

We fly out of smokey Chiang Mai on Sunday morning at sunup, climbing above the haze that has engulfed the city for days ... only to descend one hour later into the gagging stink-bomb that is Bangkok. At least the north could boast good old-fashioned slash burning -- a pure nostalgic hit of August in Eugene, circa 1967. Whereas Bangkok feels like you're punishing your body just by breathing.

On the departures level at Suvarnabhumi Airport* we hail a cab for the long drive out to Bang Khae, where Lian's sister lives.  It is not a straight shot from A to B: the cabbie has only a vague notion of how to get to Bang Khae, Lian does not have an actual street address for her sister, and I am ... patient.

You could eat off these floors. (And die.)

One hour and 600 hundred baht later, after much backtracking and many phone calls to the sister -- at one point a relative on a motor bike is dispatched to meet the cab and guide us in -- we arrive at the house. The grimy, grimy house. Visible dirt on the floors, the walls, the windows. Just ... ugh!

"My sister not tidy," Lian concedes later. "Does not clean."

"But she has a restaurant!" I reply. "We eat there!" She just shrugs.

In the afternoon we double back into town for my true purpose in Bangkok: shopping for Dragon Treasure at enormous Chatuchak Weekend Market. Three hours and one sweat-destroyed shirt later, we're back on the Skytrain toward Bang Khae with a double-bagful of faux jewels in hand. Huzzah!

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Back at the sister's house in Bang Khae, I sit cross-legged on the floor at the low dining table in the front room as various Methacharatphon clan pop in and out, smiling and wai-ing in my direction. I just grin goofily and nod back, flinging perspiration at them. After a while Lian whispers: "We put on shoes, go visit my sister husband." So we amble down the semi-paved lane to another residence, where some old folks are waiting for us with food and refreshments. I do a clumsy wai/handshake greeting with the our host, a wizened old gent in a traditional cloth wrap, and we sit down to get acquainted.

Bonding over beers with the relatives down the street.

They pour me a generous Singha over ice and then break out a jar of deep cherry-red hootch -- homemade Thai whiskey. An elderly woman (who I learn is my age) pours me a small glassful. The menfolk gesture to the food. So I indulge.

The homemade Thai whiskey looks and tastes like Jim Beam mixed with Robitussin. But I smile approvingly and slap my empty glass down on the table in front of my hostess: "Hit me again!" Everyone laughs with delight.

Lian, who has no experience with alcohol, watches me with concern. Every 10 minutes she asks: "Are you drunk now?"

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An hour later we're back up the street at the sister's house for the real evening meal. As the ladies are ordering take-out, Lian assures her sister that spice-wise they don't have to dumb down dinner for their farang guest, that I can swallow fire and belch flame with the best of 'em.

As we're sitting down to eat, Lian sets a tall bottle of water next to me but quietly instructs me on etiquette: "Cannot drink until after dinner." And then I learn that we're having Issan food. Issan, in the northeast, is sort of looked down on as the Appalachia of Thailand, but its food is famously incendiary. I make it through dinner without so much as a sip, perspiring like a fire-walker as that precious, cooling liquid sits inches away, unopened, taunting me at every burning bite.

Finally someone pushes back their plate and I am ALL over that that bottle. And then another one.



* Thailand Travel Hint of the Day: At Suvarnabhumi Airport, you're supposed to connect with your cab into town at Arrivals, where you get charged a 50-baht cab fee. Screw that! It's a total new-tourist penalty.  Instead, pop upstairs to Departures, which is swarming with cabs dropping fares at the airport. Grab one of those and no one will stop you

Dad loves his work

Even after all these years, I still get a kick out of this.

I just finished my workday here at the I-cafe around the corner from my little place in Chiang Mai, turning an assignment for a client back in Portland, and now it's time to go play. Tomorrow I fly down to Bangkok for the weekend and then it's on to the coastal town of Hua Hin for a few days of R&R (but still working!) before flying back to PDX next Friday.

Retire? From what???

We're an American band

Saturday morning I awake to a familiar but incongruous sound in the distance: the drums of a high school marching band, and then the theme music to “The Flintstones.”

AnyTown U.S.A. on Fourth of July? No, it is the start of the Chiang Mai Flower Festival parade crossing the Nawarat Bridge a quarter-mile away. I venture out to watch.

By the time I’m halfway across the flower-draped bridge, another high school marching band is rolling across with a thunderous rendition of “The Magnificent Seven.” As they disappear toward town, I hear the opening dum da-da-dum da-da-dum strains of “Bonanza.”

Respite from the American TV music in the nearby parade

I wonder: if I were to close my eyes and just listen, how would this be much different than, say, the Albany Timber Carnival parade? And then, yet another marching band (how many high schools does this town have?) rocks the crowd with “Smoke on the Water.” Now I know where old American sheet music comes to die.

After awhile I catch up with Lian and her 13-year-old son, Tao. (His real name is Pipatpong, but most Thais go by their nickname; Lian’s actual name is Charita, which sounds kind of Hispanic to me.) We’re eating gyozas and pad thai on the front lawn of the Governor’s residence when Lian gets a call to work from one of her spa clients. I agree to walk Tao back to his mother’s new room, which he has never seen.

Halfway there, I have a moment of appalled self-realization. I mean, picture it: a shlumpy, sweaty 50-something farang man walking along with a beautiful, deferential, underage Thai boy. And the sick old bastard is me!

Pervy sex tourism is a terrible blight on this part of the world. Instantly I drop six paces behind Tao, but he notices and waits for me to catch up. Nooo! Do passers-by hate me? Even I hate me right now, and I know better.

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For days Lian has been campaigning to visit someplace called “Loyer Frola” just outside Chiang Mai. “Is beautiful, you will like,” she promises. It’s a garden or theme park or nature preserve, near as I can make out from her. I keep putting it off, but she is not letting go of this Loyer Frola plan.

Tuesday morning I catch a break in my work schedule, so we hail a Red Car and it’s off to Loyer Frola we go. Thirty minutes later we roll up to the front entrance. Instantly I understand what Lian means by “Loyer Frola”:

Although flowers are not my big thing, I will concede to enjoying the indoor orchid exhibit, even if mostly for the air conditioning.

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Nothing says “Thailand” to me like the market.

No, not the air-conditioned, sanitized, western-style Rimping Market, which caters to farang expats who pay top dollar for a pedestrian taste of home. (Really, ten bucks for a package of Johnsonville bratwurst?) I’m talking about the warehouse-like San Pakoy Market, where the local Thai people hunt and gather the makings for their day’s meals.

Fresh prawns, peeled while you wait.

You either love markets like San Pakoy or go running for the Purell. Shoppers rummage among table after disorganized table stacked with random vegetables, fruits and herbs. Slabs of grilled, dried and crispy-fried meats are sitting out all day, uncovered. Soups and stews, curries, snacks – everything is homemade and nothing has a label.

San Pakoy’s meat section at first looks ghastly with enormous pig parts and naked poultry laid out, ready for the chopping. But then – sniff, sniff – you realize that, grungy and abattoir-like as it appears, the place actually smells pretty clean.

Coconut lady.

Lian picks through a pile of chicken parts with tongs to select the pieces she needs for tonight’s meal. Wielding a fierce cleaver, the chicken lady hacks them down into bite-size pieces and drops them into a plastic bag. Next we visit the coconut lady and her squeezing machine, which presses out two small bags of the freshest coconut milk you’ll ever taste. Then it’s on to the shrimp monger for a half-kilo of tiger prawns for just four bucks a pound … and he even peels and deveins them. At each stop, my job is to pay the vendor and carry the plastic bags.

Curried vegetables, fried chicken and fresh noodles.

Happy to oblige, believe me. Because there’s a reward at the other end.

Mango and sticky rice -- my favorite.

The room

For a great many working-class Thais, "home" consists of a single room and modest bathroom. Moving up usually means relocating to a bigger, better room in a nicer neighborhood ... but a room nonetheless.

Living small in Chiang Mai

Condos, apartments, houses -- those are for rich people, farangs (i.e., rich white people), and the fictional characters on Thai television.

On Tuesday I help Lian pack up and move into the more spacious digs she's found across the river for about the same money -- roughly ninety bucks a month plus utilities, which are minimal. This is not an arduous undertaking. We start around 1-ish. My big job is to walk around the corner to the mini-mart for boxes.  All the way there and into the store I practice my request in pathetic farang-speak Thai: "Mii glung mai, khrep ... mii glung mai, khrep ..." (which means, literally and Yoda-like, "Have boxes do you, please?")

"Yes, sir, how many boxes you need?" replies the shopkeeper in perfect English. Abashed we are, thank-you.

Now this is what a move should be like!

I return with six medium-size boxes and then set to work on my next important task, which involves working a New York Times crossword puzzle and staying the heck out of the way. Ninety minutes later the room is boxed and Lian calls for a truck. Or, rather ... a truck.

These small pickups, called Red Cars, are what pass for taxis and light transport in Chiang Mai. You sit on the benches that line either side of the covered bed. Our Red Car backs up to Lian's door and within 15 minutes we've got 'er packed. A 10-minute unload at the other end and our move is done by 3 o'clock.

Oh, and the cost for the Red Car plus driver/mover? Eight bucks, including tip.

New digs. Note the shoe racks by the entrance. The world stays outside.

Flub Med

Rewind to three days ago. We are cruising the apparel vendors deep inside labyrinthine Warorot Market in search of white tie-shut pajama pants and matching shirt for me – the mandatory dress code for our three-day meditation retreat at a Buddhist temple outside the city this weekend. I know, don’t ask.

At the entrance to Wat Ram Poeng.

I am always loath to purchase new clothes, let alone something I might wear once. And in this land of tiny people, I am, you might say, difficult to buy for. Finally the clerk reaches shoulder-deep into a stack of whites and produces a monstrosity that resembles David Byrne’s Big Suit. It fits me perfectly. Crap.

Lian approves. “Is good. Buy two.”

“Wait, what? It’s just for a weekend, why do I need--”

“One shirt three days?” she replies, holding her nose.

Wending our way out of the crowded street market with my two new ensembles (for all of thirty bucks), I’m still not clear on how this whole meditation retreat works. But Lian has gone many times and insists that we just show up, make our voluntary donation and then live a monkish existence for 72 hours as the enlightenment washes over us.

“I think foreigner need to bring passport,” she remembers. Men and women are strictly segregated, and no computers, telephones, video games, books or other diversions that might defile our minds on the path to Nirvana. But I want to get pictures, dammit, so I slip my iPhone into my bag.

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Slow-walking the grounds of the meditation center at Wat Ram Poeng.

At 0-dark-thirty on Saturday morning, both of us dressed like Kwai Chang friggin’ Caine, we meet our Red Car driver for the 35-minute ride to Wat Ram Poeng. This Buddhist temple on the outskirts of Chiang Mai is in near-continuous Meditation Retreat mode. Saffron-robed monks are busily sweeping the walkways with broad straw brooms when we arrive at the registration center.

Turns out that there are some gaps in Lian’s understanding of the retreat … or at least my part in it:

·          *   Yes, they want my passport and visa. Also required: two passport photographs, a photocopy of pertinent passport pages, a working alarm clock (which I guess could be my smuggled iPhone), 11 white lotus flowers, 11 yellow or orange candles, and 11 incense sticks. Luckily they have a gift shop for those last 33 items.

·          *   Yes, Thai people can "just show up." But farangs need to make reservations, and today there is no more room at the inn – all full up. Although I cannot attend meditation sessions, take meals or lay my head on a pallet at night, the check-in monk suggests that I might find a secluded place on the grounds to sit alone and try to attain self-enlightenment. I ask him: “What if I go blind?” But he blinks and does not understand.

So I shuffle aimlessly around the grounds looking like a deposed African dictator, with no good reason to remain among the spiritual strivers. Soon I catch up with Lian, who looks crestfallen and wants to go back to town. Girl Troubles.

“Not good for meditation,” she says.

Nothin' but a heartache

Tempting though it might be to spend my entire stay at Eurana Boutique Hotel – it’d run about $1,440 for a whole month, buffet breakfast included – I decide to conserve funds and move downscale.

The Kim Guest House turns out to be maybe too downscale.

Set way back from the street in a tangled little grotto, the Kim’s outdoor sitting area offers a scruffily pleasant place to work, and the wi-fi signal is sensational. Shuffling about is the venerable Mr. Kim himself, cadaverous and leathery, eyeing visitors from under a shock of white hair. If I didn’t eventually have to go indoors to sleep, the Kim might be a comfy stay.

But, oh, that room …

Clearly Mr. Kim is as casual about cleanliness as he is about gardening. And the residual funk is only made worse by the bathtub-ring effect on the walls and doors left from Chiang Mai’s recent floods.  But, hey!  Just fifteen bucks, including toast and coffee for breakfast!

The only thing Lian likes about this new place is my pet name for it: The ke maa guest house. Ke maa is Thai for “dog shit.”

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I really need to be better about taking, or even ordering, my blood pressure meds. I brought none with me and my body is letting me know what an idiot I am during a walk after breakfast.

“Chest hurts why?” Lian demands, staring at me. So I start to explain that it’s nothing really, and--

“We go to hospital now!” And that ends the discussion.

Here is my experience with the Thai health care system: we check in at the non-emergency desk of Rajavej Chiang Mai Hospital and within moments a nurse is cuffing my left arm. Shortly after that, I meet with a physician who sends me around the corner for an EKG and blood work. Everything checks out normally and it’s back to the physician to receive a stern talking-to and a prescription. I will return in two weeks for a follow-up exam.

Meanwhile as she waits for me, Lian requests and immediately receives her own periodic physical, most of which is covered under the Thai public health insurance system.

My final tab for all of the above – the hospital visit, the physician, the EKG and blood work, the prescription, even throwing in Lian’s exam – comes in at just over a hundred bucks. And a big chunk of that amount was for the American-made pharmaceuticals.

The American health care system must be working fine for somebody, I just don’t know who. No such question here in Thailand.

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Who says you need a kitchen to be a great cook? Today’s lunch: ground pork with homemade curry (using lime leaves picked from the tree out front) and a broccoli-chicken stir-fry. Imagine if this girl had an actual stove, countertop and serving table.