Chasing Waves – North Again
With the fresh memories of the latest surf and sail excursion being added to the stack of adventures gone by, there remained a week of free time before the sailing regatta season officially kicked into gear. My overall plan was to take part in the festivities, meet the visiting and local yachties, and eventually buy a sailing boat. Before this was all to take place however, I thought it to be a good time to take a quick look up north, north to the area known as the golden triangle and further north yet into the upper reaches of Laos. I remember hearing from some of my father friends about fascinating cultures; breathe taking scenery, and exotic experiences involving opioid indulgences under the Mea Khongs full moon. Some of these characters wished they had returned back to the areas spoken of, while others it was told, never left and become weaved within the outskirts of these faraway places.
After a quick flight up to Chiang Mai, I rented a 125 Honda scooter and immediately headed towards a place called Pai. I had been tipped off by random travelers that this place was one that you would show up too, stay for a week but end up being there for life. So off I went, buzzing into the mountainous terrain, bathed within the evenings soothing temperature that served up a great relief to the deep sunburn I garnered during my time chasing waves down south.
As I entered one of a very few roads that made up the main strip of Pai, street vendors were busy setting up for the night market. An assortment of handcrafted local art was being laid out road side by the ladies of the Hmomg and Lisu tribes. Local transplants of beaded European and deadlock Japanese charters walked barefooted draped in casual bell bottomed costume of the sixties fashion. The festive atmosphere was just starting to percolate around and under the numerous soft hills that warmly embraced this multi-cultural community.
While sitting at a makeshift counter that supported cups of locally grown hot tea and wheat grass, a gentleman introduced himself as Pat. Both freshly retired and divorced, Pat had decided on this area of Thailand to maybe find a property, set up some kind of business and live out the good life.
Our next five hours were spent sitting by random out door fire pits, listening to voices speak of UFO landings and the end of the world scenarios. The lingering 2012 crowd still dripped with open optimism of how the new age was upon us and pronounced that the signs were there, everywhere for all to see. This group of semi feral strays of society, all whole heartedly agreed and remained content in knowing that the camaraderie was alive and well within the “dome” of safety here in Pai.
As the ember of last marijuana cigarette faded out, so too went the diehards, some with Jesus, some with Buddha, and some still were looking to sky waiting out the arrival of the Pleiadian brotherhood. Pat seemed unfazed and said he would still resume his search for the piece of paradise that he was sure was here in Pai. I decided to keep heading North West in search of something else.
The two day drive known as “the loop” was for the most part a solitary experience. A beautiful open road sided by tall fully furnished tress, meanders through the high hill country side. Occasional river breaks in the forested lands showed off natures pristine outback of Thailand. Occasional grouping of bright orange robes walked with purpose in single file fashion, adding sharp contrast to the otherwise constant scenery of green. Deciding on a deviation from the main road, I veered onto a dusty side trail and plodded on until the over growth of plant life totally consumed any semblance of a path forward. I had reached a Thai military outpost where the guard on duty smiled, transformed his hand into a gun and motioned that this area was active. Looking out west, I took note of the smoldering hillside that I found out later was home to the Karen peoples of Myanmar. Less than pleasant living conditions were only dwarfed by the reasons that had them relocate there in the first place. The decade’s long struggle against the Myanmar military had the group eking out an existence all between two gun barrels, both guns pointing in the opposite direction with the Karen peoples in the middle.
By the time I had stepped off the rickety bus in northern Laos, the sun was in full retreat. To the north, the mountains of Chinas Yunan province were transitioning to an orange hue. A low rhythmic pulse of a drum beat emanated off from some distant hill and left my senses at odds with its tribal resonance. With the dust cloud still settling off my disappeared transport, a man huddled under the roof line of a new by building clapped his hands demanding my attention. Coming to the fore, he began pointing up high to the distant abrupt hills to the west. Within moments I was being swiftly guided through and over the many dried rice paddies. The instant adventure was a run that soon turned to jog and finally a walk till I remained at the base of a very steep and high hill. A narrow row of steps with a supporting hand rail led skyward, up towards the ever louder pounding of drums.
The final ascent left me breathless and the sudden weight of a thousand eyes speared me, the intruder. The drums commenced and I was led under a golden fabric to a place of chanting monks. The devout crowds of Buddhist gathered were continually craned over in worship while the ageless recital carried on for the next half hour. A sudden break in routine had those gathered rise up walk the circumference of the stupa three times before placing the gifts of flowers and sweets at its base. Large towering pipes of bamboo were pointed to the heavens while thin trails of smoke escaped from fiery fuse endings. Shotgun blasts sent arches of white powder high above the surrounding fields, giving honor to all the decadence of past generations.
My final lasting impression of these semi - remote regions of Laos was staying in a few villages where I was quick to note the large volume of diffused ordnance left over from the Vietnam war. These towns were literally littered over with these projectiles leaving the locals to quickly utilize the technology for useful things other than killing populations off. Instead, these bombs sometime exceeding three meters, were used as flower pots, entry steps to homes, and on one occasion a river boat. I was shown extensive tunnels where families were said to lived up to a year at times. As an American passport holder, I was happy for the generational gap and or the short term memory of the culture my country purportedly gave label to as the most bombed civilization in all of history. Sad but true.
