Faces look ugly, when you're alone

I get my first taste of the unadulterated Thai experience, and I sure do have a lot to learn before I can play alone in the deep end of the pool.

On Tuesday we catch a longtail boat to Krabi town, where we board an air-con bus to Surat Thani ... or rather, an outlying village called Na San, Lian's home town. Na San is to Surat Thani what Molalla is to Portland. No dual Thai/English signs here, and no need for them. You could drop a farang bomb on this place and kill just one person: me.

We are a LONG ways from tourist territory: these locals gape openly at the big, drippy alien that lumbers off the bus behind the returning local girl. As it happens, Na San is having some festival or other -- these people are continuously celebrating something, and always with food -- so we wind our way through the vendor stalls as I manage to crack my head on a metal sign that is hung too low (for me).

Uncle Somebody with rambutan

No one in Lian's family speaks a syllable of English, which frees me from social obligations: I get to just sit here on a hard wooden bench sweating and grinning at the mother, siblings and nieces who ignore me, while quietly flashing on a Robert Earl Keen lyric:


"Little sister brought her new boyfriend / He was a Mexican.
We didn't know what to think of him / Till he sang 'Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad.'"

Brother Whozits chops durian

On Wednesday we pile into Lian's brother's pickup for a 30-minute ride into the countryside to tend his fruit orchard of durian, rambutan, and other exotic-to-me tropical delights. Finally I get to taste the notorious, much-maligned durian: many Asian hotels, including the one I'm staying in, have signs prominently posted: "No animals, no durian." The fruit is malodorous, like rotting sweat socks, but its taste is like creamy custard -- truly a cognitive dissonance between nose and palate.

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Time to start heading home.

Lian puts me on the local train that stops in every village between Na San and the next sizable city four hours up the line, Chumpon -- third-class rail, my favorite way to see the countryside. Passage is free for Thai people, 40 baht for white folks. Racial injustice? Not really, considering all the crap they have to put up with from us ...

My reading comprehension is improving: I make out the Thai script for town names at each station and then check my answer against the nearby English translation.

Third-class "local" rail

Tonight I am in the coastal town of Hua Hin on business -- I have a 9 p.m. conference call and need the proven superb wi-fi connection of a guest house I visited two years ago.  Then tomorrow, on to Bangkok.

Southern Thailand: Railay Amazing

Railay Beach West

Rewind back to last Wednesday, Chiang Mai International Airport. This will be the experience of a lifetime for Lian, who has never flown nor even set foot in an airport. And so the x-ray machine that swallows her baggage, the portal that beeps when she walk through it, the wanding by a uniformed stranger with what looks like a big ping-pong paddle, all inspire open-mouthed bafflement. Especially when she notices that I breeze through both checkpoints.

“Why they check me, not you?” she wants to know. I patiently explain: “They like me.”

Rather than fly straight to Krabi, which is more expensive and involves a long stop in Bangkok, I have opted for a cheaper, direct flight from CM to Phuket. As we settle into our seats at the very back of the plane, I make a big show of pantomiming the purpose of the air sickness bag to Lian, the notorious public puker from our songthaew return trip from Doi Suthep. She has already downed prescription motion-sickness meds and is fast asleep before the plane even reaches altitude.

Once on the ground at Phuket International Airport, I scope out our transportation options for reaching Krabi and quickly settle on a private taxi – more expensive but faster and less hassle for two people than the shuttle buses. For the next two hours our driver, a loquacious fellow with operatic projection, bends my ear with nonstop commentary. (Lian is still zonked.) But he takes us through stunning tropical landscapes over back roads and recommends a fine place to stay, Peace Laguna Resort & Spa, in the coastal town of Ao Nang. It is low season and at under $60 a night, this will be a fine holiday first-stop.

That evening we go in search of dinner and learn a little something about hardcore tourist towns in Thailand.

Waiting for malaria ...

We pass restaurant after restaurant, most of them advertising "Thai &" food. You know: Thai & American, Thai & Italian, Thai & International, etc. Lian seeks a recommendation from a Thai shopkeeper, who swears that the place next door is wonderful. In fact it is substandard, overpriced, and farang-ified for undemanding western tastes. But on the way back to the resort we spy a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop that becomes our exclusive dining destination for the next few days.

The shopkeepers of Ao Nang, the way they accost passers-by -- so very un-Thai! One assailant plants himself squarely in front of me on the sidewalk and calls out: "Hellooo, my friend!" as he reaches in for a handshake to drag me into his tailor shop. "Mai ao! Mai ao!" I reply, drawing back as if he just offered me a handful of leprosy.

So we spend most of our time in the gated comfort of the resort, but even that becomes crazy-making, as the sound system day and night plays the same CD over and over, a languid Brasil 66-sounding female voice singing '60s and '70s pop standards. I offer the receptionist 500 baht to please go buy a different disc. Anything!

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Ao Nang is mostly a jumping-off point for better destinations. On Saturday we depart for one of the most renowned shorelines in all of southern Thailand, Railay Beach. Lian, dragging a rollaway suitcase and dressed for urban shopping, is chagrined to realize that we're about to wade waist-deep into the ocean to clamber aboard a grimy longtail boat. After a drenching 15-minute shuttle down the coast, the longtail grounds itself near shore and we wade once again to reach what would be dry sand, if it weren't raining.

Bedraggled sand-encrusted, we make for the nearest shelter, which as luck would have it turns out to be the resort I was hoping to find. Fifteen minutes later we are settled in and waiting for a break in the weather. And waiting, and waiting ...

Is it "Lo Cal" or "Local" Thai food? Whatever it is, it's great.

Railay Beach is actually two beaches on opposite sides of a narrow isthmus: Railay West boasts the picturesque shoreline and impressive cliffs that draw climbers from around the world, whereas Railay East, a three-minute walk away, is a boggy stillwater of mangroves and muck ... but with a younger, hipper, more laid-back, ganjafied vibe. Railay East is also where we find this modest little corrugated tin-shack, dirt-floor restaurant with some of the best food either of us has ever eaten -- very Thai, very tasty.

Modest accommodations in the Third World.

Tomorrow it's back to the longtail for a shuttle to Krabi town, where we'll board a bus to Surat Thani ... and the final week (for now) of my stay in Thailand.

Change of address

The view from my balcony

A more detailed update is coming soon, honest.  I've been a bad blogger, but it's just that work has picked up these last few days and I've had to dedicate my laptop hours to being gainfully employed. The good news is, this little adventure is proving to be workable and sustainable.

Short version: Chiang Mai and the authentic expat experience of northern Thailand are behind me; Wednesday I was airlifted deep into farang-infested territory down south. I'll save my rant about how unfettered tourism debases native cultures for another time, because I'm currently too busy being a total resort pig with the other white folks being waited on by brown folks.

Tomorrow I catch a longtail boat around the rugged coastline to Railey Beach for the weekend, and after that ... to be determined.  Meanwhile here's some pictures, and now I need to grab some shuteye.  It's been a long workday next to this swimming pool, let me tell you.

Coconut shake ... in a coconut.

Birds' eggs and parasols

I am a little slow on the uptake, sometimes.

For example: at the admission booth for San Kamphaeng Hot Springs, an hour east of Chiang Mai by songthaew, Lian picks up, of all things, a bamboo basket containing a dozen speckled robin-size eggs, and looks at me: "We get?" For 20 baht (about 66 cents) I figure, what the heck.  But ... why?

An odd memento?  Another Buddhist worship ceremony?  (Last week at the temple we bought live fish and caged birdies to be released back to nature at the riverside.)  But as we approach the twin geysers of the main hot springs, I finally get it.

A sign provides directions for boiling the eggs in the adjacent pool.  Ah!  That would explain the packet of soy sauce tucked in with the eggs. How it works is, you hang your basket on hooks that are driven into sides of the pool.  A few minutes later you retrieve your immersed basket and start peeling teeny-tiny eggs to eat with the soy sauce.  Yum!

So we hang out at the hot springs for a couple of hours dangling our feet in the not-boiling watercourse near the geysers before grabbing lunch and heading back to town. But Lian arranges with the driver to take us on a scenic route through Bo Sang "to see amber store," she says.  I wince.  Amber?!?  What, with mosquitoes trapped in it, like in "Jurassic Park"?  I'm not buying any damned amber ...

But I am mistaken: she is saying "umbrella," not "amber," and it turns out to be a happy surprise.  Bo Sang is known as Umbrella Village for the many manufacturers of parasols, fans and other colorful trinkets -- all handmade using traditional, pre-electrical tools.  OK, I'll admit that this is pretty cool to see, and I might even come back for the Bo Sang Umbrella Festival in January.  Lantern processions, traditional Thai music ensembles, and not touristy at all, according to my tourist guidebook.

When culinary worlds collide

For about week now I've been jonesing for a platter of honest-to-gosh American chow. So when Lian says she wants to try "European food," I think: perfect. There's this local chain, The Duke's, that should cover both bases, and it's an easy half-mile walk from my place.

Typical Thai lunch, or what's left of it.

By the way, Lian has no idea what "European food" is, nor has she ever tasted any cuisine from outside southeast Asia. Our meals usually consist of takeout from the vendor stalls or what she buys at the open-air markets: dried fish, fiery stir-fried chicken or pork with herbs, raw beans and cuke slices, nam prik (chiles in fish sauce), fresh fruit, noodle dishes, and rice rice rice.

Tonight we visit a spot-on simulation of the lard-assed American eating experience, right down to the massive portion sizes. Think Applebee's quality at Stanford's prices and you've got The Duke's.  Lian is lost in the illustrated mega-menu of burgers, steaks, pizza, pasta, ribs, appetizers, sides, salads ...

"I have salad," she decides by process of elimination, and I get the sense that everything else looks kind of horrifying.  I go with the vegetarian lasagne, reasoning that it contains enough familiar elements that I can share; there'll certainly be plenty.

A big plate of focaccia arrives.  Lian points to the butter and asks: "Nii a'rai?" So I explain what butter is to a 49-year-old woman who has never seen the stuff.  Exactly the same way she explains the most familiar condiments in her world to me.

First, the bleu cheese dressing ...

Lian's salad arrives and thank goodness I thought to order the dressing on the side.  Can you believe that a lettuce wedge with bleu cheese was the least offensive salad choice?  She tastes the dressing and makes a terrible face.

... then the Roquefort.

Then she notices the lump of roquefort on the other side of the plate.  I am ready with the camera, and the moment does not disappoint.

We beg our waitress for something resembling Thai salad dressing, but the kitchen has none. So she eats her iceberg lettuce wedge dry. And that is Lian's "European food" experience.

As we leave, she thanks me for dinner, but adds: "I think, no second time."

A temple is NOT a theme park

Imagine that you're a young woman choosing what to wear to church on Sunday morning in Anytown U.S.A. Do you go with the halter-top and the shortie-shorts? No?  Then why the heck are you flouncing around in your beachwear at one of Thailand's most sacred Buddhist temples?

309 steps up to the temple

Founded in 1383, the grand Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep sits atop a granite mountain overlooking Chiang Mai. Sunday is a Buddhist holiday and many locals are making the pilgrimage up Doi Suthep (the name of the mountain) to worship. Lian and I rent a songthaew for the woozy 15-kilometer uphill slalom that puts us at the base of the temple, 309 steps above. We brave the gauntlet of food vendors and trinket sellers to make the climb.

Adorable hill tribe child in native costume

The ornate temple buildings, the golden chedi (a mound-like structure used for worship), the view of the city, the monks and dancers and worshipers -- it's almost sensory overload. Lian, a practicing Buddhist, is here on business; she buys a few offerings for her god -- "to give me good luck," she says -- while I hang back and take it all in.

Loaner sarongs for the culturally challenged

I should mention, admission to Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep is free for Thai people and 30 baht for foreigners ... probably to cover the cost of sarongs and shawls to drape over the clueless white girls who show up dressed for beach volleyball. Did they, or the t-shirted, baseball-capped dudes who brung 'em, read ANYTHING about Thai culture before they came here?

After an hour or so we descend to the parking area and locate our songthaew driver, who agreed to wait for our return trip down the winding road. Lian's god apparently is in a pissy mood today and does not bestow good luck: instead Lian gets carsick and spews extravagantly and publicly all the way back to town. I tip the songthaew driver an extra 50 baht for the many emergency stops.

Feeting the fishes

Walking home this afternoon, just up the street from the restaurant with the honeybees, I pass a spa that offers a most unusual treatment: fish massage. The idea is, you immerse your feet in a tankful of small scavenger fish, which nibble away the dead skin cells.

These are not my feet in the photo, by the way -- they belong to an elderly Thai gent, possibly the owner, who is parked in the storefront window to attract slack-jawed farang passers-by with iPhone cameras. He almost catches one, too.

Shut up and eat your bees

Bee harvesting in a busy restaurant. Uhhh, why?

This might be one of the strangest sights I've seen in Thailand, or anywhere. Somewhere inside the cooking station of this noodle joint, in a glass corner next to the sidewalk, is a beehive. Honeybees are everywhere -- on the countertop, in the food, swarming all around the cook.

She reaches over with a pair of tongs and starts scooping honeybees off the glass and the counter, and stirs them into a pot. For cooking? Dipping sauce?? She is practically reaching her hand into the hive for bees but somehow never gets stung. I want to ask her so many questions, but that damned language barrier ...

It's a fabulous restaurant, by the way. Dis-sting-tive, even!

A changing of the guide

Flash back a few weeks to the day of my arrival in Chiang Mai. That afternoon I go in search of Thai-style pampering at a nearby spa.

Lian, a polite Thai lady

They sit me down with a plate of watermelon and soon a pleasant woman named Lian is cheerfully performing a most heroic act: rehabilitating my feet. She does such a meticulous and splendid job that I opt for a one-hour massage as well. Sixty minutes later I am a satisfied customer all over again.

As I am leaving, she asks: "You come back tomorrow for two-hour massage?" The notion is just so decadent, I automatically reply: "Sure!"

Nick (dramatic re-enactment)

Eventually Lian and I get to be friends outside the spa as she introduces me to the primo noodle carts and discount shopping places around the 'hood. (Two new shirts and cut-offs, $35 -- nice!) She also tutors me in what is "polite" and "not polite" in Thai society, from wearing short pants and tank tops in Buddhist temples (a big "not polite") to covering one's mouth with a napkin while using a toothpick in a restaurant.

Now I have a new guide to replace expat buddy Nick Egert, who is back in the states by now for physical therapy following a vicious beatdown in a bar fight. On Wednesday I visit Nick again at the hospital. He is much more alert than the last time I saw him in ICU, and not nearly as grotesque. (Damn, I wish I'd brought my camera!) He'll be back, he vows -- just unsure when.

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A word about Thai potty technology. The spritzer hose hanging next to the tank is exactly what you think it's for.

Sewer systems here are too fragile to accommodate toilet tissue, so the spritzer is Thailand's refreshing and efficacious solution. (Many places do offer TT as well but insist that you place used tissue in a nearby wastebasket, which is just nasty.)

Every expat I've asked about the spritzer is an enthusiastic convert. So am I.