Footloose Scot (5 page)

On the second day we started to pass cultivated fields of poppies. Later, in a small village higher in the hills, we came across a thin, middle-aged man with Chinese features, wearing a uniform jacket. Our guide started talking with him, and then the Chinese man switched languages and started to chat to us in English. He said his family had fled from China when Mao took over in the late forties, and had settled in Thailand. He had a certain presence which suggested authority, and our guide said later that he was the local drug lord. We moved on across wooded, hilly terrain and even the energetic young Germans were glad when we reached the second village where we spent the night. The next morning we hiked a short distance to a main road where we caught a ride back to Chiang Mai.

In Southern Thailand I took a boat to the island of Co Samui. This was before it and its neighbor Co Pangang became crowded and popular, and an airport was built. What I like about this sort of yet-undiscovered place is the type of traveler you can meet. If you're lucky you meet not just budget travelers, but people with enquiring minds, who have been to other off-beat places, and will share experiences and observations. They will be of different nationalities so there is the additional bonus to getting a different outlook on matters (local politics, international affairs, foods to eat) based on country of national origin.

In Bangkok someone told me about a lodge in northwest Thailand, close to the Burmese border. According to my informant in a Bangkok backpacker hostel, it was the place where savvy travelers were going to. It was in a remote rural spot, owned by an Australian who had been there for years. It was a great place to hang out, smoke pot, eat well and do whatever you felt like. A little skeptical of this sort of insider's tip, I nevertheless thought I'd try and find it.

Following the instructions of my informant, I took a bus to Mai Hong Son and then a pickup for a further twenty miles. Standing in the back of the pickup close to where I was sitting was a young Westerner, wearing shorts and boots, with a red face and sweaty skin. As the pickup lurched around corners he swayed, bumping against the other standing passengers who glanced anxiously at him. After half an hour, the pickup stopped, and a few passengers got off including the young man, who was in a hurry. Just as the van was about to leave again, he reappeared and climbed on board, looking a lot better. He later told me in a broad Australian accent he had been feeling "crook" (Australian for ill) but had thrown up his breakfast behind a bush, and suddenly felt a lot better. He was also heading for Cave Lodge.

We both got off a little while later, and followed a dirt road into the jungle. After ten minutes a pickup drove up behind us, and the driver, a white man, shouted at us to pile in. This was the Cave Lodge owner and in twenty minutes we arrived at his place. Perched on a slope above the bank of a river was a wood and bamboo building, and on each side a few cabins.

Here I spent three days, hanging out just as I had been advised. There were trips on the river and to nearby caves to look at stalactites. But the most interesting activity was the evening discussions and tales which took place around a large table. There must have been six or more nationalities in a total of twenty people, and most had a story. The meal over, some more beers were ordered, a joint was being passed around and everyone was mellow. A couple from Liverpool described the problems with their rented jeep. It would not engage in reverse gear, so sometimes they had to push. A lawyer from Oregon explained why the Rajneesh guru, who started a commune in Oregon, had such a success in the USA recruiting well-educated followers. Some hours later, those with cabins would leave and the others would stretch out on the dining room floor.

Arriving at Bangkok's brand new airport in 2009, the first thing one notices is the slogan "Long Live the King" on each jet way - a reminder that Thailand has a constitutional monarchy. Inside the busy terminal, a throng of pestering taxi touts offered rides to downtown Bangkok. I changed some money, found a pay phone, made a reservation at a guest house recommended in a guidebook, and took the express bus into town.

"Strictly no drugs. No visitors in Guest Rooms. Sex tourists not welcome and will be discharged. Smoking in guest rooms is a crime." In the heart of the busy Sukumvit area of central Bangkok, the Suk 11 guesthouse was efficient and friendly, and enforced its rules. Converted to Thai rustic style, the guest house/hostel offered dorm beds and private rooms, with or without private bath. I took a private room, with a shower on the balcony, for $14 including breakfast, and immediately turned on the air conditioning as relief from the high heat and humidity. April is off-season and Suk 11 was only half-full. The guests were all foreigners of all ages, from South Africans to Europeans. Internet access, a library, and a meditation room were available. In the reception area, fans whirled overhead and the sound of flowing water came from an adjacent courtyard -an oasis of calm in the noisy city center.

Outside was a different matter. Leaving the guest house I stepped out into a narrow street, lined with parked cars, motor bikes plus drivers waiting for customers, and sidewalk vendors selling hot and cold snacks. I passed the Sabai Sabai Massage Parlor, the Pickled Liver British pub and Charlie Brown's Tex-Mex Canttina before reaching a 711 convenience store, where I bought a soft drink.

Later, I struck up a conversation in a restaurant with a large British man enjoying a plate of noodles. He said he was captain of a Russian ice breaker ship working on the Pacific Coast. He regularly came to Bangkok off-season, never booked in advance and always negotiated on the phone at the airport a steep discount at a four-star hotel. Returning to the guest house I watched an argument outside a coffee shop. A middle-aged Australian in a bright beach shirt was threatening to call the police if a street girl didn't return his passport. "C'mon, sweetie," he kept saying, "Just hand it over, and we'll be friends again." She eventually did, but only after he paid her an extra 1,000 baht ($30).

The traffic noise was constant, the heat was serious and everywhere seemed crowded. Bangkok has a population of around 7 million. Despite the 2006 political coup by the generals, violence along the southern border with Malaysia and bombings in the capital, which have affected tourist arrivals, to my eye Bangkok seemed much like the last time I had visited 20 years before: vibrant, energetic and full of people. However, certain new features stood out.

As in Hong Kong, one of the changes was in city transportation. There are now two elevated train routes, called Sky Train, and one metro underground line. Depending on one's destination, this can really help the visitor; otherwise there are numerous bus lines, inexpensive taxis or tuk-tuks (auto rickshaws). Next day, I used Sky Train, then the metro to get to Chao Phraya River for a boat trip. The river cuts through the city and a variety of boat services provide cooling transportation, some with tourist commentary, and allow for stopovers to visit principal attractions.

I headed for the Grand Palace, built in 1782 by King Rama I as his residence. This large compound is no longer home to the Royal Family, but is open to the public who can visit its many halls and pavilions, its museum and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, whose Buddha is actually carved out of a block of green jade. Nearby is Wat Pho temple which houses the gold-plated reclining Buddha, 50 yards long. It was off-season but the crowds were considerable, and the heat oppressive. To find out the history of the Palace, I nipped from tour group to tour group listening to their guide explain the basics.

Later I spent half a day with Tim, my nephew from England. Thailand has long been an attraction for expatriates drawn to the good weather, low costs and laid-back life style. Many live in Chiang Mai or at beach resorts like Phuket or Patong. Tim however had lived in Bangkok for 8 years precisely because he enjoyed the city's size, noise and hectic confusion. Using local buses he showed me parts of the city not in the guidebooks, and restaurants which I would not have found by myself. One morning we were wandering through the city's Lumphini Park . I heard some music from loudspeakers and noticed everyone was standing still. Tim motioned to me to stop. The national anthem was being played, and everyone respectfully acknowledged the moment.

Seven hundred miles north of Bangkok, Chiang Mai (population 160,000) is Thailand's second city. At the airport, the familiar face of Roy Hamric was immediately recognizable. I had known Roy in Alpine, Texas. Previously a professor of journalism in Texas, he had been lured out of retirement in Chiang Mai to come back to Alpine, Texas to edit a local paper,
The Desert Mountain Times.
With the subsequent closing down of the paper, he had returned to Chiang Mai, his home, and now wrote about Burmese affairs. I had invited myself to visit him and his wife, Laddawan - and here he was. Roy was completely at ease in Thailand, appreciated Thai culture and had an interest in Buddhism. I couldn't have had a better informed or more hospitable guide.

Driving into town, there seemed to be a lot of people on the sidewalks, in clusters, throwing water at passing cars, particularly at the many scooter riders. Pick-ups drove by full of youngsters who were scooping water out of barrels in the back and throwing it by the ladleful onto bystanders on the sidewalks. I had arrived at
Songkran,
Thai New Year, and a three day national holiday. The traditional expression of cleansing had expanded into a city-wide water fight; everyone was laughing, squealing and throwing the wet stuff around, some using hose pipes. Visitors joined in and everyone got soaked.

Roy wanted to visit a mountain-top village near the Burmese border with an interesting history. The villagers had formerly been part of the Kuomintang army which fled China in the late 40s, and still spoke Chinese. So we headed north along a fast road through fertile countryside, gradually gaining elevation till we found ourselves in a small town on top of a ridge with terraces of tea bushes dropping off on each side: Mae Salong.

After checking in to a guest house, we set off down the main street. A sign in Chinese characters stuck to the side of a wooden house caught our eye. Outside, an ancient Chinese man sat on bench. Roy asked what he did, since this seemed a place of business. After a slow explanation via the ancient's wife, who was younger, it appeared he was a doctor of traditional medicine. This was timely since Roy was suffering from digestion problems. Roy extended his hand for examination. The doctor, Mr. Soo, painstakingly examined it, then diagnosed stomach problems, and offered some powders as a cure. Some time later, having taken photos and found out more about the doctor's background, Roy paid a few
baht
and we left. The next day Roy reported that the powders had worked. He said he was feeling better.

Before heading back to Bangkok by train, I gained some insight into the expat's life in Chiang Mai. At a party given by an American researching a new book, I spoke with a German who made musical instruments out of bamboo, listened to an older Japanese couple talk about how it felt to retire to Chiang Mai and met a famous guidebook author. Thailand has long been an easy place to which to retire: warm climate, tolerant population, good food and laid-back life style, an open attitude towards sexual proclivities, and low prices. Total annual tourist arrivals in Thailand are approaching 20 million of which the USA provides 609,000; and the USA has more expat residents in Thailand than any other country.

Before leaving, I visited Roy's wife Laddawan's well-stocked boutique, bought a brightly colored shirt and received a foot massage from her niece; they called the treatment Happy Feet. Her store, "Laddawan's," is well located on a main tourist shopping street and is run by her and her family. Colorfully shirted and with happy feet, I felt re-energized and ready for a move to the next country.

BURMA

Many of the tourists on the flight from Bangkok to Rangoon in 1987 carried a bottle of whisky. We had all read the guidebook which advised that a bottle of Johnny Walker would work wonders if a bureaucratic problem arose. Thailand was an efficient country with a robust economy visited by millions of tourists annually. Burma was backward, rundown and controlled by a military junta. Most tourists avoided it out of concerns for their safety or comfort, others as a refusal to condone the military regime.

I wanted to see the gentle people described by Orwell and Kipling, who wrote, "This is Burma. It is quite unlike any place you know about." This was why I was lining up with my bottle of whisky at Burmese Immigration. We waited an hour to get out of the ill-lit airport terminal, and then took a bus into town. As we bumped along the uneven streets we caught a glimpse of a soaring illuminated gold stupa, the Shwedagon pagoda, which would be the first site I would visit the next day. The bus dropped off a few people at hotels where they had made reservations and finally stopped at the YMCA where the remaining passengers unrolled their sleeping bags on the floor of the gymnasium. It was too late to go looking for rooms.

The next morning I roamed the streets of Yangong, the name which replaced the old colonial name of Rangoon when the country became independent from Britain in 1948. I noticed old British cars like a Hillman Minx, long out of production, parked on the street. Street vendors sold individual cheroots to smoke, and had a smoldering length of rope from which to light your purchase. A tailor's shop advertised: Tip Top Tailors for "Gentlemen's suitings and shirtings," a quaint reminder of the past.

The Shwedagon pagoda, 2,500 years old and 325 feet in height, is the oldest Buddhist shrine in the world, and home to the relics of four Buddhas. The overwhelming gold color, sparkling in the sunshine, comes from real gold plates. The bell-shaped stupa rises 325 feet and is decorated with thousands of diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Approaching by a walkway filled with vendors, the visitor removes his shoes before entering. Overwhelmed by the magnificence of the building and the awe reflected by the ordinary Burmese visiting the temple, I was surprised when two novice monks approached. They wanted to test their simple English on me. We passed a few minutes in happy, childlike communication, a simple human sharing amid the other-worldly magnificence of the pagoda.