Chiang Mai to Fang
The first leg proves to be the longest in the trip. Fifty-nine
kilometers to our first stop at a small town just before a fork in the road.
The road leading up to it is flat and straight, and the vibration starts to
put my hands to sleep. I keep awake by dodging the oncoming traffic, which
assumes a motorcycle will yield to an oncoming, passing vehicle. Lights are
used as a courtesy. The only rule is that there are no rules. David tries to
hold his own, lifting his leg and showing his soles as a sign of disrespect.
The long straight-aways are the most dangerous parts of the trip.
David orders some snacks from a small vendor, what looks
like half-moon tako-yaki, semi-spherical batter with bits of corn in
it. The cloying sweetness doesn’t go with the coke. Rule of the road,
no beer until after we reach our destination. Ten klicks (KM) up the main cement
road we veer off to the left to a macadam road with more turns. Making brief
stops we reach a small village near the Burmese border. The market is in full
swing as it straddles a small lake on a causeway. We guide our bikes through
the throng and wind our way up the dusty back streets to a small lunch stand.
Noodles, a favorite in this Chinese village.
As we much David explains that there are a myriad of ethnic
villages here in Northern Thailand, and the Chinese ones are the most prosperous.
I discover they are also the cleanest. The noodles are delicious and just right
for a light meal. Pick-up trucks and scooters are everywhere. Nobody is walking.
| Thirty klicks brings us right on the Burmese border and to a small hidden valley. The village there has one small stand for drinks. Three charoot-smoking teens attend us and the old man walks up. David asks the 60-year-old appearing man his age. At 83 he was one of the first Kuomintang (Chinese Nationalists) to shuffle over the permeable border into Thailand from Burma. He established this valley village. The son our age drove up in his new Honda car, laden from goods from our lunchtime market. He had been in Bangkok and brought additional goodies. The old man’s youngest daughter was 21, and had a 2-year-old on her lap. David and I walked around the house, through the altar as David chatted with the family. A wooden shack stood next to the improved brick version. Two sets of technology for two generations. Above us grafted jackfruit ripened. The old man was wiry, his wife more bent after 6 kids. He quit smoking 25 years ago. The daughter had radiant fine skin, due to the natural diet, said David. | |
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More winding roads and we reach the physical border of Burma. Over the hill is no longer Thailand. We stop in a village of Ank, with the older women festooned in pink sari-looking clothing with yellow trim. David notices a shack off the beaten track with a bunch of people on the bamboo porch. It seems that a woman has trekked 3 hours over the border to sell her peanuts to those in “rich” Thailand. David buys a bag of them, noting her entrepreneurial spirit. The guys are all smoking cheroots, and the baby looks like she is teething on betel nut. I crawl up to get my picture taken with them and note the shaky construction. |
All adult women in the village are working on making sheets
of thatching that will replace the roofs this year. The men are digging and
some women are washing in some kind of pool of water. This is the top of the
mountain, so all water has to be hauled here.
David talks to the village teacher, 21 years old with 39 kids to handle in the one-room schoolhouse. |
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One woman approaches David and shows him an swelled infected
thumb that she says is so painful she cannot sleep. David decides to send her
to a doctor when he hears that the traditional medicine is not working. To
insure that she goes, David searches out the village headman and gives him
money. She will go tomorrow. Total cost, $7.50 to the woman, $2.50 to the man.
This is about two week’s wages for some of these people. We meet the village
teacher, a 21-year-old with 39 charges. The villagers obviously are not in
the opium business.
We find one older woman weaving traditional cloth. Another man is holding his baby and smiles red with betel juice. Mostly women are addicted here. Perhaps because they have a harder life. |
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As the sun lowers to late afternoon, my ass starts hurting.
Thanking the stars for no hemorrhoids, I am thankful for the winding roads
because it makes me shift my but on the seat. We descend to the main highway,
the one we left in the morning. About ten klicks up the road is a substantial
town called Fang.
First stop: an old friend and three small pitchers of beer,
our second day and a second kind of beer. David has ice with his, I decline.
We check in at the old main hotel, and get a room together for $4. Shower time
makes the road sores go away, mostly, but am still stiff in the legs. Thus
David decides it is time for a true Thai massage. We wander around on the motorcycles,
no need for helmets, looking for an appropriate place. David’s normal
place is encountered, but his normal girl has gone off and gotten married.
Only two girls are available because it is so early. We contract for a couple
of beers and two hours of massage apiece. They lead us to a darkened room and
we put on pajama-like tied pants and loose shirts.
For two hours I go through the most excruciating pain I
have had in years. Worse than an acute charlie-horse or toothache, these girls
knead our flesh into submission. The riding has stiffened us up way to much.
We get bent and kneaded on both sides, fingers and toes yanked and twisted.
The lights go out in this part of town twice, leading to candlelit massage.
After two hours, the body feels invigorated, light and as we stand up, the
blood rushes to places I didn’t know I had. God this felt good!
The two girls, Juaue and See, are actually women, in their
early 30’s, mine with a heroin addict husband that ran away after fathering
a boy seven years ago. This job helps support that boy. The other was in a
similar situation, but without kids. We asked if they wanted to go to dinner
with us, they pick the restaurant. We all went on motorcycles (they had a moped)
as the night turned chilly.
Out in the rice paddies at the edge of town, near 11 PM
and we arrive for last orders. We get the best hot and sour soup along with
stir-fry veggies and flaky, fluffy rice. As the rice paddies start to fog over,
the food arrives and our masseuses do something incredibly sensual. They feed
us, lifting forkfuls of food to our mouths. I decide this is about as close
as you can get to heaven.
Later that night we hit a second bar/restaurant, one that
looks like a Swiss chalet. Inside singers strut on stage to heavy beat-laden
dance music (Thai house?). We order the same soup, which is richer to my taste
buds, but without such a spicy lemon edge. This is pronounced not as good as
the last restaurant. We consume large quantities of beer. I take short walks
outside for fresh air and to look at the stars.
At closing, David takes his masseuse back to the hotel with us, and we get a second room. I sleep the sleep of the entirely contented.
