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.”
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Curried vegetables, fried chicken and fresh noodles. |
Happy to oblige, believe me. Because there’s a reward at the other end.
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| Mango and sticky rice -- my favorite. |
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