Some Travels End in Ruins

We left the farm. No surprise there, really. It was time. We spent two weeks shoveling into bags, almost burning our hands on the heat that escaped from between the layers of decomposition. You wouldn't think it, but the compost was hot. It was cool to strike the pile with a hoe and watch the steam rise out of the pile. The steam was from the heat of the anaerobic processes under way deep within the compost pile, released by my hoe after months of putrifying. We grew a bit bored with the process. Acquire compost, bring compost, water the composted tree and moisten the compost around the tree with pigshit water, cover compost around the tree with straw. Rinse and repeat. The alternative was to fill holes dug for new papaya trees with compost. Either choice involved traviling a long road with bags of compost slung over your shoulder. It got old. But that's not the real reason I wanted to leave. Even a task like composting fuit tree groves can become therapeutic with the right thoughts in your mind. It was time to go and I'll leave it at that.

We left for Chiang Mai, again. Chiang Mai, deservedly so, has become our hub between activities. We'd go somewhere, and come back, go somewhere else for a few weeks, and come back. And like always, we stayed with Vichai. Altogether, this man and his wife and son hosted us for maybe two weeks of our trip. I think he liked the company since he was retired. It gave him something to do, people to talk to about our travels and about the U.S. where he lived for many years and about his ideas to open a Chinese restaurant in the U.S. or a hot dog stand or any number of different food stall ideas. Last time we were in town we met Pensook, the principal of a secondary school in town, and went to a buffet lunch with her. This time in Chiang Mai we met up with Pensook again and went to dinner with her. Her younger brother is the proprietor of a whole block of boutique hotel and spas. During the meal we were treated to a huge Thai style dance production. There was a man moving with swords in his mouth, a story about a monkey that married a fish that was adapted from an old Hindu story, men drumming, and women gracefully turning their wrists with their fingers extended in the traditional thai style. On the way out, people lit huge paper laterns and released them. They drifted up into the empty night like glowing hot air balloons. We asked Vichai, who had come to the dinner, "Aren't those blowing towards your neighborhood?" He said, "Yes. One time one of those dropped into the community pool." We didn't believe him, of course. When we turned the corner onto his street, we saw a huge paper latern. The white paper lie folded on itself on the ground and it no longer glowed. Vichai laughed. "What did I tell you? Every night it is like this."

That time in Chiang Mai was our last. We will not be going back to Vichai's. We left for Sukhothai and then Ayutthaya to fill in the last few days before the Phillippines. They are both cities built around ruins. Sukhothai was a wonderful town with people who still smiled. It was the one place above all others that I felt as if it wasn't all about business, that the people were still genuinely happy that I was there. The ruins were spread far apart, a large city of ancient temple complexes. We rented bikes and rode them all day, and when we had seen all of the ruins, we rode the bikes just to ride them. The air felt clean and there was a peace in the slow deterioration of the place and in the neutral smiles on the faces of the many Buddhas at each ruined temple.

Ayutthaya was the capital of Siam for four centuries until the Burmese razed it in the 1700s. The ruins that remain are what was left of the city when the Burmese left. Every so often a pile of bricks sits discarded, the past and past locations of each brick unknown. But many figures still remain. You can imagine high brick walls covered in an older cement mixture. Worn, straight postured Buddha images sagely sit, staring ahead. The pointed tops of the chedis are now a faded gray-black of mildew growing in the grain of the cement, but were once covered in gold; all melted dorn by the Burmese as spoils of war. The one thing that improves with the years is the face of  Buddha at Mahathad Temple. A ficus tree's roots slowly grew downward around the stone head. Every year that it becomes further enveloped, further strangled by the roots, it rises higher towards the heavens. I looked at it as a resounding motif: experiencing enlightenment through nature. Nature lifts us to God. After all, didn't the real Buddha end the cycle of suffering under a Boh tree? I came to this realization while being similarly enveloped, not be dense ficus roots but by screaming Asian tourists, all hurrying to flash a peace sign while there laughing friends snapped a photo. The sheer numbers of them were stifling.

Late tomorrow night (3-29) we leave for the Phillippines. One of Lizzie's cousins is set to pick us up from the airport in Manila. We spend a few nights there and then Head to Bagguio. After Bagguio we fly to Bohol to see the chocolate hills and hopefully some beachtime before we head back to Manila. It shouled be a nice two weeks before heading home. Some of you I will see very soon. Rebecca's name comes to mind. I want a haircut and some good conversation.

We found it, a real farm.

We finally caught up to our schedule for northern Thailand, and on that schedule we arranged to stay at Aimee Doyers Organic Farm. We arrived after taking a bus from Chiang Rai to Chiang Mai, a bus from Chiang Mai to seven km passed Chiang Dao to the intersection with road 1178 where we then got onto a Sangteuw (pickup truck converted to passenger holding vehicle complete with benches alongside the truck bed, a few guys had to ride on top) to Ban Lo Pahan, got out when we saw a motorcycle shop, walked down the road across the street for about one km until a dirt road, turned left onto the dirt road and then walked for about 700 meters to the house. These were some of the better directions we have had, but they are always further complicated by the Thai-English language barrier. Quick fact, Thai is a language with a set alphabet, not pictorial characters like Japanaese or Chinese. But as the title of the post explains, it is a real farm that grows food and everything. Needless to say we were excited; a feeling temporarily halted by the barking Rottweiler in the driveway. We would learn that Maloi is a kind idiot, truly harmless but a dangerous looking dog.

There are five other WWOOFers here, all French speaking, and they had been working on the seemingly unending project of delivering compost to the rubber and fruit tree groves. The process involves hacking compost out of a rich, layered mound and then shoveling it into rice husk bags. The bags are then brought to the trees. Sometimes we have to carry the 40lb bags if the terrain does not permit use of the cart. You spread the compost around the base of the tree and then wet it. Then you cover it with straw or rice husk, something to help keep in the moisture. The can water can be tricky. The pump that brings water through the hose is not powerful enough to go uphill. The hose is also almost never long enough to reach the trees. We often find ourselves carrying buckets uphill to the trees. I should also mention that the water comes from a pond that is full of pig shit. Not only does the water moisten the compost, it adds additional nutrients for the nutrient poor soils. But it is disgusting as the water, sloshing around in the bucket as you carry it, spills onto your leg and slowly drips into your boot. The smell stays with you no matter how many times you wash your hands. The idea is that the compost is made from material that is indigenous to the area and therefore it possesses microbes that are indigenous to the area and capable of breaking down and fixing nutrients that plants in this area need. It is a place-specific system. This is basically what I have been doing for the past five days. Maybe a new project will come up, but this composting project seems like it is it. It is hard work, the kind of work that makes you proud you accomplished it, work that you want a cold beer after, the kind of work a Thai man would do for 5-6 dollars per day, and not be able to afford a cold beer after.

Wednesday (3-9-11) was Jean-Marcs (a fellow WWOOFer) birthday. Members of the Lisu (a hilltribe in Thailand) community came to celebrate it with us. It began with Christian psalms in Lisu. They sang in perfect two-layered harmony. The whole time children ran around, climbed into and out of laps, and ate watermelon and sour unripe mango. Then individuals stood and prayed for Jean-Marc. After maybe an hour of all this, everyone come together around Jean-Marc, and placing a hand on him, jointly voiced their prayers. People shouted and whispered, their eyes closed, focused that his wishes may be granted by God. It was sincere, their energy powerfully positive as if the ceiling opened to let in a bright, shining light. Then we ate Khao Soi, a delicious noodle dish with yellow curry, coconut milk, pickled cabbage, onions, and chicken. It was a happy experience, a modern Lisu tradition where Christianity has replaced the veneration of spirit gods. After showing some of the Lisu children card tricks that made them giggle and shine with curiosity, they left. And we were left to our routine of waking, spreading compost, resting during the hottest hours, returning to the groves, and then finally sitting as tired individuals who have all shared hard work. A laughable bunch, happy to be sitting.

 

A Hilltribe Holiday

This waterfall never ends. It simply goes where you can no longer see it. The water continues to new tiers of the same falling river. It pools, and rises, pools, and rises, and disappears into the dense overhanging foliage. Untidy banana trees extend broad, green leaves while dry, dead leaves hang against the thick stem. Bamboo leaves stretch like thin fingers on slender hands. A whole community of bamboo stalks holding hands. We sat for hours here and just listened to the birds, the water, the eerily creaking bamboo.

Nearby there was a school. We taught English for a day to the children who came from the neighboring hilltribe villages. The girls were shy and the boys loud, eager to show off until called upon. It is the same in every language. The same giggles from all of the kids not singled out by the teacher. The "that's what you get for showing off" giggles from the girls as you convince the boy to pull himself out of his seat and write the first day of the week on the board. We had lunch with the teachers. Green curry, scrambled egg with kale, a noodle dish, and a cabbage dish. They were as shy as the students to talk with us. 

At the elephant camp we made a connection with an elephant, if only for fifteen minutes. He looked curiously at us with his cloudy, cataract eye. I held his trunk and felt the smoothness and the roughness of his trunk. I felt the short black hairs and then let his trunk drop. He brought it back to my hands. I caught it, and then let it drop. Next I gently blew into it and he tore it away, tickled by the air. He curiously, slowly brought it back. It always came back. Lizzie and I both played catch with an elephant's trunk. Sometime during the interaction he popped a huge boner.

A hot spring spa fed natural hot spring water into private bath houses and a swimming pool. The warm water soothed muscles that had walked far to get there; a long sought reward.

All of these things were within a several km walk from the Akha Hill House, a guest house nestled in the hills in an Akha village. The Beekers, who live upstairs from my parents, recommended it and it was a wonderful place to either have packed days of trekking or just to sit and relax. However, I'd wager the place has changed since they ventured through. There is a paved road going almost all the way to the village, there is wifi, lots of cement, and lots of jungle-cleared hills converted to mango groves. There is a single unconverted hillside remaining where you look out from the hill house dining,relaxing,reception area. The world is changing, there is no doubt. But even as I imagine what it would be like to be surrounded on all sides by jungle, the scent of mango blossoms fills my nostrils. One can find beauty in everything.  

And then today we went to the Hilltribe Museum in Chiang Rai where they basically state that every manner in which you can access the hilltribes is exploitative (except, of course, the tours arranged through the Hilltribe Museum's Population and Community Development Association). So we hung our heads in shame and defeat. We didn't actually do that. But, I began to compare the experience to the way in which some Maasai villages in Kenya are constructed to be tourist attractions and have nothing real about them. Tourists come to a village of mobbing women soliciting their crafts. No way of life is interrupted by your arrival because the way of life has been changed in expectation of your arrival. The way of life is dead in these villages. Which begs the question, is there any way to see an authentic village of traditional people anymore? Can I realistically hope to have an honest, pure interaction with people who cling to their culture in the face of globalization? I like to think that everyone isn't out there to just sell me shit; that a simple way of life close to the earth still exists unspoiled by the desire to adopt western ideas of consumption. Does everyone want a slice of the metaphorical pie?

Things You Can Find in a Thai 7-Eleven

Having spent much time in Thai 7-elevens because they are conveniently everywhere and are the only reliable place to find yogurt, I decided to compose a list of some of the more eye-catching items.

Wasabi peas, seasoned seaweed sandwich with tofu sheet, badminton birdies, tamarind with apricot powder, shower caps, salted cured plums, scorched rice with fossy pork pepper sauce, skin whitening lotion, bacon-wrapped hotdogs, sweet chili squid Lays chips, a refreshing towel, chicken pot pastry pie, red fanta slushee, UHT sweetened flavored milk product, Nopamas incense sticks and Lucky yellow candles for the temples, soybean sauce soaked hard-boiled eggs, Playtex tampons, Pao with savory curry chicken and preserved egg, Halls, tofu, and every Nestle Milo product ever made.

I hope everything at home is wonderful, and thawing.