Our departure from Sukhothai did not start out well.
To celebrate his wife’s birthday, our host, Marco, graciously invited us to a traditional Thai luncheon along with the other hotel guests. After checking out of our rooms, Dave, Casey, Karis and I gathered with the others on the porch at the main house. The cool refreshment of the morning’s dip in the pool had sweated away in stuffing the backpacks, hauling them to our shoulders, and lugging them to the front entrance. While the view from the shelter of the porch was sunlight on neat patches of lawn bordered by green fronds and flowers, it was sweltering hot.
Stretched the length of the table, browned and grinning, was a roast pig. A whole pig. I glanced at Dave, chagrined. Since childhood, I’ve been a fan of pigs – Wilbur of E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web, and the plucky Babe of the 1995 movie by that name. Pigs are smarter than dogs, and with a forgiving permanent smile, greet a world that sees them as pork and bacon. Where many would relish this feast as a delightful native experience, Dave and I don’t eat meat, so we were grateful for the hospitality, but tentative. One hears stories of guests eating monkey brains and eyeballs rather than offending a Chinese host, and while this was not as dramatic, I wished not to be rude, but was not going to eat that pig.
Ceramic bowls heaped with steaming concoctions were arrayed around the main course. Perfect. I ladled onto my plate a generous portion of pasta-like tubes in thick red sauce. The dish smelled rich and spicy, but I was wary enough to ask before digging in. It was not pasta and tomatoes, but a stew of blood sauce well stocked with assorted arteries, veins, and ducts. Surprisingly, I was not hungry. There was a lovely bowl of fresh fruit on the table, thank God, and I can report that orange and banana peels make excellent cover.
After picking and poking through the meal, artfully arranging the remnants on our plates, we thanked Marco and his wife effusively, then requested a tuk tuk for our trip to the airport. Marco waved the idea aside – cordial as he was, we’d found he was a man of strong opinion, accustomed to control – and declared a minivan was better, given the length of the trip and the nature of the roads. He made the arrangements and indicated a cost of 300 baht, or nine dollars. Not bad for a forty-five minute ride for four people.
Upon arrival at the airport, the driver turned and requested payment, 1200 baht.
Casey leaned forward from the back seat, her spine rigid, uncompromising. Her eyes locked with those of the driver, her gaze strong as a steel beam. “That is not what we were told.” She said.
The man spoke little English and repeated the price. Held up four fingers. Pointed at the four of us. Perhaps we were unaware of our number? Couldn’t add?
My daughter shook her head, lips set in a tight line. “Not acceptable. I realize this is not your fault, but we will not pay 1200 baht.”
Who was this woman, so firm, so noble, in her pursuit of right? Her antennae had been quivering with caution about Marco since she met him. He was out of her reach, beyond the laser of her indignation, but she was glorious in her determination to shield her parents from his conniving.
Unfortunately, Dave and I were not up to the battle. Soothing others, seeking agreement: that’s what we do. Maybe this was a misunderstanding? Given the option of striding from the van trailed by a protesting driver, Casey and Karis with heads high, Lea and Dave, heads down, hoping no one would see us, we paid. “I’ve learned to sniff out scams, Mom, and that’s what this was.”
*Sigh*
But what better way to ease resentment than to spend an hour or two at Sukhothai airport? I jest not; the place was a joy. The waiting area was an open-air shelter, breezy and aromatic with the scent of surrounding gardens. Rows of comfortable wooden chairs branched from the central focus, an artful arrangement of sea-swept gray driftwood and sinuous purple and white orchids. To increase the pleasure of our stay, a complimentary self-serve counter offered juice, tea, cappuccino, hot chocolate and coffee, as well as banana chips and crispy rice treats studded with sesame seeds and cashews. It was festive, light-filled, as we chatted, snacks in hand, with a couple from Australia.
A winged vision in pink, red, yellow and coral glided to the gate, and our flight was announced. I fairly danced to the plane with its mural of fanciful fish and flora painted on the fuselage. Smiling attendants bowed in greeting as we boarded, and once we were seated and buckled in, outside the window, the ground crew, in neon vests and goggles, waved as we rolled away.
Asian airlines return fun to flight.
On this one-hour jaunt, lunch was served; one of the best meals I’ve had on the trip so far. Wide noodles, shrimp, carrots and baby corn in a sauce with a hint of curry. I don’t like cooked carrots as a rule, but these were cooked to the point of just the right crunch. Oh, and did I mention the free beer and wine?
Who do I write to lodge compliments and complaints? I’ve come to accept the harsh conditions of the airlines we usually travel. Delta seating allows no room to shift or stretch and throws a defiant gauntlet to one my age. Creaky knees? As if we care. Sore coccyx? Alternate butt cheeks. Hungry? Have some peanuts. But Bangkok Airways? May I offer more fresh pineapple and papaya? How can I make you more comfortable?
While we relaxed with our wine, fruit, and curry, the view out the windows of the land passing below was grim: swaths of brown mud with geometrical borders of spindly green: flooded rice paddies. On the ride from the Lotus Hotel to the airport, we’d seen our first glimpses of the devastation reaped by the floods: people picking around in yards strewn with debris, porches askew, roads and bridges washed out. This plane ride had been the only viable route open, as we’d heard that buses were forced to take detours up to twelve hours long, and even then, some bogged down, water seeping into the vehicles' interior.
What would await us in Bangkok?
Showing posts with label Sukhothai. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sukhothai. Show all posts
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sukhothai - Part II - Breathing with the Buddha
Casey and Karis don’t trust Marco, and I hate how much that influences me. He is chatty and informative, indulges my efforts at Italian, and hustled us out last night as soon as we’d dropped our packs in our rooms so we could take a tuk tuk for a spin around the historic park during the Saturday night illumination. It was amazing, and we would have missed it otherwise. But I confess, he makes me uncomfortable too, and I am not sure why.
Still, he promised an incredible breakfast and even if it had been toast and coffee, I would have enjoyed it from my seat on the porch at the main house, surrounded by lush gardens, tall, graceful lotus flowers, rustic chairs of twisted vine, and tables set with fruit and jam in painted ceramic bowls.
Marco greets us warmly and places a small green pouch of banana leaf on the placemats before us. “Coconut and rice pudding. An old woman in the market makes it every day,” he says. “And this,” he says, referring to a long stick encased in seeping translucent gold, “wild honey from the forest.”
We peel open the little pouches and spoon honey on the pudding inside. I don’t like coconut, so I take a cautious nibble. Divine. I love it, so Marco brings me another, as well as eggs to order, coffee, juice and toast. Incredible. He was right.
Dave asks about the ceramics - our sink, the pots on the table - so Marco disappears in the house, and returns with a map of the town. He draws an arrow to indicate the location of the ceramics shop and instructs us to rent bikes to visit the park. “Go now. Later on, it is too hot. Come back to the pool for the afternoon, and return to the park for sunset.” He could not be more gracious, and I am defensive when Casey is annoyed when he asks for payment for WiFi use. I want everyone to get along, everything smooth. One of Casey’s personal goals for the trip is to free herself of undue concern over others’ opinions, expectations and moods; I could use a dose of that myself.
* * *
After our morning tour of the park, Casey and Karis head back to the pool while Dave and I ride out in search of ceramics. We steer our bikes down a narrow lane lined with rickety shacks separated by corrugated metal fences. A man squats in a doorway making a broom. A family prepares to sit for lunch at a table beneath a metal awning. Will they shoo the kitten off the table, I wonder? The dog stretched languorously by their feet is not budging, and everyone’s ignoring the chickens scratching about the table legs. Dave and I know nothing about Thai economics or social circumstances and this neighborhood is, at best, humble, but we’ve seen many streets and abodes like this. Still, it’s hard to imagine a shop of fine ceramics in this setting.
I slow down and stop to show the map to a strolling couple. They look blank and shake their heads. A wisp of an old woman limps by, leaning on her walking stick. We greet each other, Sah-was-dee-kah, but I don’t bother her with the map. Finally, a young man in a soccer jersey appears in a yard, studies the map for a moment, and directs us back the way we came, indicating a final jog to the left.
We retrace our path, take that left… and the shacks, metal fences and dusty yards give way to thick jungle ferns stalked by snarling green ceramic guardians; Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god of success; writhing serpents; many Buddhas….and a woman in a surgical mask bathing a small naked boy in a tub. She waves as if she’s been expecting us, and points to a doorway across the road. We park our bikes hesitantly; will they be safe? I look to the woman, gesture to the bikes, try to come up with some universal signal for safety. Can’t think of any. I make a concerned face, wave my hands around to take in the area and the bikes. She nods and bends to douse the child with water.
Inside, two women greet us, bowing, beneath a carved wooden lintel. In shin length jeans and a multi-colored shirt, one woman is fiftyish and matronly, with a round, flat-planed face. Her feet are bare. Her regal companion is older, seventy or so, with youthful, fine-boned features. Her shiny, black hair is pulled back in a tight bun and her white jacket is stylish over an ankle-length skirt. A small reserved smile curves her lips. Beyond them, a hallway is lined with shelves piled high with plates, bowls, tea sets and vases. We see jam pots like those at Lotus Inn, as well as the mammoth bowls that serve as sinks. As we browse, the older woman remains silent while her round-faced partner follows our eyes, hands us pieces to inspect, and spouts prices. “Hand made. 400 baht.” About twelve dollars.
I picture my already burdensome backpack, considering what I can toss out, what products I can combine, how much I could carry in a separate bag. I’d love a full set of dinner plates…and those sinks? Out of the question, of course, but they are glazed with a subtle crackle finish that makes them look ancient, and Asian design or not, they’d be perfect in our early American house.
We have wandered into a warehouse area stocked with life-size Buddhas and guardians. The lovely woman in white abruptly takes my arm, turns me around, and walks me purposefully toward the front hall. Have I offended? Is she kicking us out?
No. She has decided that guardians are not on our shopping list, and steers us toward the items-that-might-fit-into-a-backpack room. She knows clients and wants to get down to business. Her companion pulls over a stool for me, and then our two hosts sit cross-legged on the floor. Dave joins us and the negotiations begin. A young girl appears from the back with a tray, bows, and offers water in sealed plastic cups: a variation on the tea theme, perfect for this hot day. Dave and I press our hands together, bow, and say “Kah-poon-kah.” Thank you.
“Babies?” the round-faced woman asks.
At my answer, “one girl, one boy,” she rises to fetch two small figurines – a pony and a bird – and hands them to me. “Gifts.” She then adds another bird and an elephant, and with an open hand, palm up, indicates me and Dave. “For you.”
I feel like I’m in a movie. Shopping at the mall, this is not.
Dave and I review the array before us and begin eliminations: if only we could carry more! I ask, with a combination of words and gestures, if they ship to the U.S. They shake their heads no, so we are down to a vase, two bowls, four small saucers, and the figurines. The women give no sign of disappointment in our meager purchases when we signal we are done.
After an abundance of wrapping in newspaper and bubble-wrap, several bows, and “Kah-poon-kahs,” Dave and I mount our bikes, now ungainly because bulging plastic bags dangle from the handlebars. How? How? How will we fit all this into our backpacks?
* * *
It’s not work from which I need a break, but myself.
After our excursion to the ceramics emporium, Dave and I join the girls at the pool at Lotus Inn. Due to the heat and relentless sun, they have taken refuge on colorful fabric mats in one of the raised, thatch-roofed platforms pool-side. We claim the adjacent shelter and stretch out. Could not be more idyllic. But I am mentally twitching. This morning as we biked the shaded roads of the historic park past stately Buddhas, bulbous towers and corridors of ancient columns, I admired the view, but my mind was a hamster on a wheel of worry. We have hotel reservations in Bangkok tomorrow night, but because of the floods, trains aren’t running and normal bus routes are closed. Earlier, we’d asked Marco to look into our options and he said, “Bangkok is floating. You can take a bus, but with the detours, it will take twelve hours at least. You’ll have to fly. That’s it. Fly.”
That’s it. Fly. Casey hates flying and both girls are budget conscious. The unexpected plane fare was bad news – not to mention the “Bangkok is floating” part - and Marco, the messenger, received a low grade from the girls. But we had no choice, and booked the flight with Bangkok Airways. So that was set, but I sense the tension. Dave and I will help the girls with the ticket price, but still, Casey is annoyed and anxious, and the shadows are lengthening. If we are to make it to the park for sunset as planned, we have to hurry.
Hurrying is hateful when it is sweltering hot, the shower sprays water all over the bathroom (as there is no shower stall, no shower door, no shower curtain, just the shower itself with the resulting wet toilet paper, wet toilet seat, and wet towels), clothes are clammy the minute you dress, and the bike ride (over streets littered with flattened snakes, land crabs, turtles, and toads) is steamy.
We wheel into the park as the sun sinks. It flames orange through the trees and glints off the reflecting pool at the entrance. We leap off our bikes to capture that shot, then re-mount and pedal like crazy to reach the monuments. We let drop the bikes and run up the walkway, past snoozing stray dogs and sauntering tourists who’d timed their visit better.
This was our third visit to the park in twenty-four hours. We’d taken the illumination tour last night as well as this morning’s spin around the reflecting pools and temples, so we have seen the sights. Photography has been an important part of Karis and Casey’s trip; they have experimented with color pick-up, lighting, silhouettes, and details. The purpose of this sunset trip is its artistic opportunities…and we are late. I do not want the girls to be disappointed.
Without a word, the four of us scatter. Where might the colors of the sun’s final show best be seen?
Like the others, I dart down pathways between rows of columns and clamber crumbling stairways, clicking frantically as the sun disappears. On a massive platform before a giant Buddha, near the vine-like trunk of an ancient bodhi tree, I finally give in and sheath my camera. Nestled in the roots of the tree, a scruffy dog nurses her squirming puppies, and I wonder at my haste, my frenzy of photos. I am not a photographer, and three other cameras in skilled hands have been zooming and focusing to freeze this evening for us. Why have I rushed about so, when a pen is my tool?
I sit on the sun-warmed bricks in the dusky light and watch the puppies. Crickets hum. In a grassy area nearby, young boys dash after a ball. I am wistful, envious of their easy laughter. This is their home; these monuments, so familiar, a barely noticed backdrop to their Sunday night soccer.
My gaze shifts to the Buddha. Twenty-five feet tall and painted white, he holds one arm out, bent at the elbow, hand upraised, palm out. Dave learned in an audio tour this morning that this is the posture for fearlessness, protection and peace. Physically, it is not an easy position (I tried), but I yearn for these three blessings for myself and my loved ones. I breathe more slowly and strive to release worry about flights and the girls’ feelings. Breathe… Breathe… Breathe... The Buddha’s smile is serene; I try to match it.
Karis appears below me, camera upraised and aimed in my direction. “Lea, don’t move,” she says and presses the shutter. For the moment, with the help of the Buddha, I am the image of peace.
Still, he promised an incredible breakfast and even if it had been toast and coffee, I would have enjoyed it from my seat on the porch at the main house, surrounded by lush gardens, tall, graceful lotus flowers, rustic chairs of twisted vine, and tables set with fruit and jam in painted ceramic bowls.
Marco greets us warmly and places a small green pouch of banana leaf on the placemats before us. “Coconut and rice pudding. An old woman in the market makes it every day,” he says. “And this,” he says, referring to a long stick encased in seeping translucent gold, “wild honey from the forest.”
We peel open the little pouches and spoon honey on the pudding inside. I don’t like coconut, so I take a cautious nibble. Divine. I love it, so Marco brings me another, as well as eggs to order, coffee, juice and toast. Incredible. He was right.
Dave asks about the ceramics - our sink, the pots on the table - so Marco disappears in the house, and returns with a map of the town. He draws an arrow to indicate the location of the ceramics shop and instructs us to rent bikes to visit the park. “Go now. Later on, it is too hot. Come back to the pool for the afternoon, and return to the park for sunset.” He could not be more gracious, and I am defensive when Casey is annoyed when he asks for payment for WiFi use. I want everyone to get along, everything smooth. One of Casey’s personal goals for the trip is to free herself of undue concern over others’ opinions, expectations and moods; I could use a dose of that myself.
* * *
After our morning tour of the park, Casey and Karis head back to the pool while Dave and I ride out in search of ceramics. We steer our bikes down a narrow lane lined with rickety shacks separated by corrugated metal fences. A man squats in a doorway making a broom. A family prepares to sit for lunch at a table beneath a metal awning. Will they shoo the kitten off the table, I wonder? The dog stretched languorously by their feet is not budging, and everyone’s ignoring the chickens scratching about the table legs. Dave and I know nothing about Thai economics or social circumstances and this neighborhood is, at best, humble, but we’ve seen many streets and abodes like this. Still, it’s hard to imagine a shop of fine ceramics in this setting.
I slow down and stop to show the map to a strolling couple. They look blank and shake their heads. A wisp of an old woman limps by, leaning on her walking stick. We greet each other, Sah-was-dee-kah, but I don’t bother her with the map. Finally, a young man in a soccer jersey appears in a yard, studies the map for a moment, and directs us back the way we came, indicating a final jog to the left.
We retrace our path, take that left… and the shacks, metal fences and dusty yards give way to thick jungle ferns stalked by snarling green ceramic guardians; Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god of success; writhing serpents; many Buddhas….and a woman in a surgical mask bathing a small naked boy in a tub. She waves as if she’s been expecting us, and points to a doorway across the road. We park our bikes hesitantly; will they be safe? I look to the woman, gesture to the bikes, try to come up with some universal signal for safety. Can’t think of any. I make a concerned face, wave my hands around to take in the area and the bikes. She nods and bends to douse the child with water.
Inside, two women greet us, bowing, beneath a carved wooden lintel. In shin length jeans and a multi-colored shirt, one woman is fiftyish and matronly, with a round, flat-planed face. Her feet are bare. Her regal companion is older, seventy or so, with youthful, fine-boned features. Her shiny, black hair is pulled back in a tight bun and her white jacket is stylish over an ankle-length skirt. A small reserved smile curves her lips. Beyond them, a hallway is lined with shelves piled high with plates, bowls, tea sets and vases. We see jam pots like those at Lotus Inn, as well as the mammoth bowls that serve as sinks. As we browse, the older woman remains silent while her round-faced partner follows our eyes, hands us pieces to inspect, and spouts prices. “Hand made. 400 baht.” About twelve dollars.
I picture my already burdensome backpack, considering what I can toss out, what products I can combine, how much I could carry in a separate bag. I’d love a full set of dinner plates…and those sinks? Out of the question, of course, but they are glazed with a subtle crackle finish that makes them look ancient, and Asian design or not, they’d be perfect in our early American house.
We have wandered into a warehouse area stocked with life-size Buddhas and guardians. The lovely woman in white abruptly takes my arm, turns me around, and walks me purposefully toward the front hall. Have I offended? Is she kicking us out?
No. She has decided that guardians are not on our shopping list, and steers us toward the items-that-might-fit-into-a-backpack room. She knows clients and wants to get down to business. Her companion pulls over a stool for me, and then our two hosts sit cross-legged on the floor. Dave joins us and the negotiations begin. A young girl appears from the back with a tray, bows, and offers water in sealed plastic cups: a variation on the tea theme, perfect for this hot day. Dave and I press our hands together, bow, and say “Kah-poon-kah.” Thank you.
“Babies?” the round-faced woman asks.
At my answer, “one girl, one boy,” she rises to fetch two small figurines – a pony and a bird – and hands them to me. “Gifts.” She then adds another bird and an elephant, and with an open hand, palm up, indicates me and Dave. “For you.”
I feel like I’m in a movie. Shopping at the mall, this is not.
Dave and I review the array before us and begin eliminations: if only we could carry more! I ask, with a combination of words and gestures, if they ship to the U.S. They shake their heads no, so we are down to a vase, two bowls, four small saucers, and the figurines. The women give no sign of disappointment in our meager purchases when we signal we are done.
After an abundance of wrapping in newspaper and bubble-wrap, several bows, and “Kah-poon-kahs,” Dave and I mount our bikes, now ungainly because bulging plastic bags dangle from the handlebars. How? How? How will we fit all this into our backpacks?
* * *
It’s not work from which I need a break, but myself.
After our excursion to the ceramics emporium, Dave and I join the girls at the pool at Lotus Inn. Due to the heat and relentless sun, they have taken refuge on colorful fabric mats in one of the raised, thatch-roofed platforms pool-side. We claim the adjacent shelter and stretch out. Could not be more idyllic. But I am mentally twitching. This morning as we biked the shaded roads of the historic park past stately Buddhas, bulbous towers and corridors of ancient columns, I admired the view, but my mind was a hamster on a wheel of worry. We have hotel reservations in Bangkok tomorrow night, but because of the floods, trains aren’t running and normal bus routes are closed. Earlier, we’d asked Marco to look into our options and he said, “Bangkok is floating. You can take a bus, but with the detours, it will take twelve hours at least. You’ll have to fly. That’s it. Fly.”
That’s it. Fly. Casey hates flying and both girls are budget conscious. The unexpected plane fare was bad news – not to mention the “Bangkok is floating” part - and Marco, the messenger, received a low grade from the girls. But we had no choice, and booked the flight with Bangkok Airways. So that was set, but I sense the tension. Dave and I will help the girls with the ticket price, but still, Casey is annoyed and anxious, and the shadows are lengthening. If we are to make it to the park for sunset as planned, we have to hurry.
Hurrying is hateful when it is sweltering hot, the shower sprays water all over the bathroom (as there is no shower stall, no shower door, no shower curtain, just the shower itself with the resulting wet toilet paper, wet toilet seat, and wet towels), clothes are clammy the minute you dress, and the bike ride (over streets littered with flattened snakes, land crabs, turtles, and toads) is steamy.
We wheel into the park as the sun sinks. It flames orange through the trees and glints off the reflecting pool at the entrance. We leap off our bikes to capture that shot, then re-mount and pedal like crazy to reach the monuments. We let drop the bikes and run up the walkway, past snoozing stray dogs and sauntering tourists who’d timed their visit better.
This was our third visit to the park in twenty-four hours. We’d taken the illumination tour last night as well as this morning’s spin around the reflecting pools and temples, so we have seen the sights. Photography has been an important part of Karis and Casey’s trip; they have experimented with color pick-up, lighting, silhouettes, and details. The purpose of this sunset trip is its artistic opportunities…and we are late. I do not want the girls to be disappointed.
Without a word, the four of us scatter. Where might the colors of the sun’s final show best be seen?
Like the others, I dart down pathways between rows of columns and clamber crumbling stairways, clicking frantically as the sun disappears. On a massive platform before a giant Buddha, near the vine-like trunk of an ancient bodhi tree, I finally give in and sheath my camera. Nestled in the roots of the tree, a scruffy dog nurses her squirming puppies, and I wonder at my haste, my frenzy of photos. I am not a photographer, and three other cameras in skilled hands have been zooming and focusing to freeze this evening for us. Why have I rushed about so, when a pen is my tool?
I sit on the sun-warmed bricks in the dusky light and watch the puppies. Crickets hum. In a grassy area nearby, young boys dash after a ball. I am wistful, envious of their easy laughter. This is their home; these monuments, so familiar, a barely noticed backdrop to their Sunday night soccer.
My gaze shifts to the Buddha. Twenty-five feet tall and painted white, he holds one arm out, bent at the elbow, hand upraised, palm out. Dave learned in an audio tour this morning that this is the posture for fearlessness, protection and peace. Physically, it is not an easy position (I tried), but I yearn for these three blessings for myself and my loved ones. I breathe more slowly and strive to release worry about flights and the girls’ feelings. Breathe… Breathe… Breathe... The Buddha’s smile is serene; I try to match it.
Karis appears below me, camera upraised and aimed in my direction. “Lea, don’t move,” she says and presses the shutter. For the moment, with the help of the Buddha, I am the image of peace.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sukhothai, Part I - Plan B
The ancient city of Ayutthaya is flooded, so we won’t be wandering among its temples as planned. Rising waters are eliminating travel routes and transportation possibilities, but I am striving to stow worry about reaching Bangkok in time for the flight home in five days. Live in the moment. Pay attention. Absorb my surroundings. Good goals. And right now, Karis, Casey, Dave and I are tucked in a van among a jumble of bags, backpacks and passengers for the trip to Chiang Mai en route to Sukhothai, our Plan B after studying the guidebooks for un-flooded ancient sites.
The girls were shaking and wobbly-kneed after our wild careen up to Pai, and were not about to tolerate reckless driving again. Seasoned travelers as they are, they have learned to assert themselves and demand satisfaction. My sisters tell me I’m conflict-avoidant and there may be some truth to that, so I have been impressed with my daughter’s confident “don’t mess with me” attitude.
In this case, Karis did not wait for Poo, the unfortunately named driver, to demonstrate his skills at the wheel, but put a hand on his arm as soon as he settled into the seat next to her. Her blue eyes and solemn smile expressed, “We will understand each other,” as she said, “Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Number One driver,” replied Poo, hand upraised, index finger extended. #1.
“Number One, yes, if you get us to Chiang Mai with no one sick and everyone safe.”
“Number One,” repeated Poo.
“Do you know the story of the tortoise and the hare?” Karis asked.
Casey, Dave and I chuckled, sure that Aesop was prominent in Poo’s education. Still, either Poo is a man who values his passengers’ lives and mental health more than his colleagues, or Karis’s intensity conveyed her message. He takes the switchbacks cautiously, honks a cheerful warning before blind curves, and drives at a speed that leaves us hands-free as opposed to clinging desperately to the seats before us.
“Besides,” Karis tells us, “the number on the van is my mom’s birthday, so she has us covered.” Karis lost her mother six years ago, and we are grateful for this sign that Cathy’s on watch from the Other Side.
Once underway, the girls flip through Poo’s CDs, and discover Rod Stewart. Crazy. As soon as Rod begins to rock, the girls chime in and commence a synchronized chin-jut, shoulder dip routine in rhythm with the sway of the van. Poo observes their antics with amusement. “I bet he doesn’t usually share the front seat with dancers,” Karis says with a grin.
I love my view of those two bobbing heads, Karis’s streaky blond hair in its neat bun, and Casey’s tousled brunette knot, wispy tendrils curling down her neck. I am infused with their joy, these funny, light, high-spirited girls who are reveling in this portion of their Asian journey.
Beep, beep, beep. Poo blows the horn as we pass a van on its way up to Pai. “Was that your friend?" Karis asks him. He smiles, but doesn’t respond.
“Nice. Nice greeting,” Casey says. I think they’re relieved to have a sane man piloting us down the mountain. Everything he does is cause for praise.
“He’s being very careful, girls,” I say as Poo honks a warning at a pedestrian.
In unison, their heads swivel to smile at me and nod. “Yes. I love him. I might even give him a hug once we arrive.” Karis beams.
* * *
A night arrival to the unforgiving white lights of a bus station in an unfamiliar town is always unsettling. Add the Asian factor? Disorienting and disconcerting. Disappointing. Disheartening. All kinds of words that start with “dis.” It is warm out, but I’m cold, perhaps it’s my mood more than the temperature. We have no reservations, and when a tuk tuk driver, handsome despite a birthmark that stains half his face, grabs two of our packs and hustles us to his vehicle, we comply without complaint. He has a tiny child in tow, a little girl, and for no good reason, that reassures me, but knowing nothing about my surroundings is way out of my comfort zone.
We load into the tuk tuk and leave the station behind. I watch suspiciously as a sign for the historic park points one way, and we head in the opposite direction toward “New Sukhothai.” Doesn’t sound good. I don’t trust “New.” I want to say, “Wait!” but there’s a window between the driver and me, so we forge on into the dark.
In ten minutes or so, we pull into what appears to be a rest stop. No. It’s a hostel. Dave and I clamber from the tuk tuk to check out a room. It’s clean, but sterile, and I can’t imagine that New Sukhothai is the place to be. We shake our heads and our guide says he will show us something else.
“Something else” is down a long, light-less, street that snakes along a canal. “Something else” is a place where one might be murdered and disappear forever. No.
Casey has been flicking through the Lonely Planet guidebook and finds an inn near the historic park. Our driver hesitates, “Far away. 15 kilometers.” My fellow travelers are adamant, thank god. Alone, I might have caved and settled for the sterile hostel, but we head for the Lotus Inn which, as it turns out, is only ten minutes away.
The place is whacky; we can see that despite the hour. Chubby statuettes of gnomes and grinning, bare-bummed girls peek from ferns lining wading pools afloat with water lilies. Paths inlaid with ceramic flowers weave among shrubs and canopied enclosures hung with bamboo hammocks. Scents of wood-smoke, honey and incense perfume the air. We are charmed as we can be, given our rumpled state and fatigue, as Marco, the proprietor, leads Dave and me up the steps of a porch to a snug bungalow.
Marco is sixty-five or so I’d guess, and his white hair is swept back from a high forehead, prominent arched nose, and piercing eyes shadowed by extravagant brows. In a loose canary-yellow shirt, he fumbles with the lock, opens the door, and gestures for us to enter. The room is small but attractive, the bed draped in mosquito nets. Oddly enough, rather than fleeing after spotting a pile of chewed fabrics and telltale turds – a rat’s nest perhaps? – we troop behind our host to check two other bungalows. During our short time in Thailand, I have tried to suspend my American sense of what is acceptable. Besides, I have never slept behind mosquito nets, and I am drawn by the stunning red lacquer bathroom with its sink of smoky blue ceramic graced with circling fish in simple brushstrokes. We search the rooms thoroughly - no sign of rodents – and agree to stay.
We will not tell the girls about that nest.
The girls were shaking and wobbly-kneed after our wild careen up to Pai, and were not about to tolerate reckless driving again. Seasoned travelers as they are, they have learned to assert themselves and demand satisfaction. My sisters tell me I’m conflict-avoidant and there may be some truth to that, so I have been impressed with my daughter’s confident “don’t mess with me” attitude.
In this case, Karis did not wait for Poo, the unfortunately named driver, to demonstrate his skills at the wheel, but put a hand on his arm as soon as he settled into the seat next to her. Her blue eyes and solemn smile expressed, “We will understand each other,” as she said, “Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Number One driver,” replied Poo, hand upraised, index finger extended. #1.
“Number One, yes, if you get us to Chiang Mai with no one sick and everyone safe.”
“Number One,” repeated Poo.
“Do you know the story of the tortoise and the hare?” Karis asked.
Casey, Dave and I chuckled, sure that Aesop was prominent in Poo’s education. Still, either Poo is a man who values his passengers’ lives and mental health more than his colleagues, or Karis’s intensity conveyed her message. He takes the switchbacks cautiously, honks a cheerful warning before blind curves, and drives at a speed that leaves us hands-free as opposed to clinging desperately to the seats before us.
“Besides,” Karis tells us, “the number on the van is my mom’s birthday, so she has us covered.” Karis lost her mother six years ago, and we are grateful for this sign that Cathy’s on watch from the Other Side.
Once underway, the girls flip through Poo’s CDs, and discover Rod Stewart. Crazy. As soon as Rod begins to rock, the girls chime in and commence a synchronized chin-jut, shoulder dip routine in rhythm with the sway of the van. Poo observes their antics with amusement. “I bet he doesn’t usually share the front seat with dancers,” Karis says with a grin.
I love my view of those two bobbing heads, Karis’s streaky blond hair in its neat bun, and Casey’s tousled brunette knot, wispy tendrils curling down her neck. I am infused with their joy, these funny, light, high-spirited girls who are reveling in this portion of their Asian journey.
Beep, beep, beep. Poo blows the horn as we pass a van on its way up to Pai. “Was that your friend?" Karis asks him. He smiles, but doesn’t respond.
“Nice. Nice greeting,” Casey says. I think they’re relieved to have a sane man piloting us down the mountain. Everything he does is cause for praise.
“He’s being very careful, girls,” I say as Poo honks a warning at a pedestrian.
In unison, their heads swivel to smile at me and nod. “Yes. I love him. I might even give him a hug once we arrive.” Karis beams.
* * *
A night arrival to the unforgiving white lights of a bus station in an unfamiliar town is always unsettling. Add the Asian factor? Disorienting and disconcerting. Disappointing. Disheartening. All kinds of words that start with “dis.” It is warm out, but I’m cold, perhaps it’s my mood more than the temperature. We have no reservations, and when a tuk tuk driver, handsome despite a birthmark that stains half his face, grabs two of our packs and hustles us to his vehicle, we comply without complaint. He has a tiny child in tow, a little girl, and for no good reason, that reassures me, but knowing nothing about my surroundings is way out of my comfort zone.
We load into the tuk tuk and leave the station behind. I watch suspiciously as a sign for the historic park points one way, and we head in the opposite direction toward “New Sukhothai.” Doesn’t sound good. I don’t trust “New.” I want to say, “Wait!” but there’s a window between the driver and me, so we forge on into the dark.
In ten minutes or so, we pull into what appears to be a rest stop. No. It’s a hostel. Dave and I clamber from the tuk tuk to check out a room. It’s clean, but sterile, and I can’t imagine that New Sukhothai is the place to be. We shake our heads and our guide says he will show us something else.
“Something else” is down a long, light-less, street that snakes along a canal. “Something else” is a place where one might be murdered and disappear forever. No.
Casey has been flicking through the Lonely Planet guidebook and finds an inn near the historic park. Our driver hesitates, “Far away. 15 kilometers.” My fellow travelers are adamant, thank god. Alone, I might have caved and settled for the sterile hostel, but we head for the Lotus Inn which, as it turns out, is only ten minutes away.
The place is whacky; we can see that despite the hour. Chubby statuettes of gnomes and grinning, bare-bummed girls peek from ferns lining wading pools afloat with water lilies. Paths inlaid with ceramic flowers weave among shrubs and canopied enclosures hung with bamboo hammocks. Scents of wood-smoke, honey and incense perfume the air. We are charmed as we can be, given our rumpled state and fatigue, as Marco, the proprietor, leads Dave and me up the steps of a porch to a snug bungalow.
Marco is sixty-five or so I’d guess, and his white hair is swept back from a high forehead, prominent arched nose, and piercing eyes shadowed by extravagant brows. In a loose canary-yellow shirt, he fumbles with the lock, opens the door, and gestures for us to enter. The room is small but attractive, the bed draped in mosquito nets. Oddly enough, rather than fleeing after spotting a pile of chewed fabrics and telltale turds – a rat’s nest perhaps? – we troop behind our host to check two other bungalows. During our short time in Thailand, I have tried to suspend my American sense of what is acceptable. Besides, I have never slept behind mosquito nets, and I am drawn by the stunning red lacquer bathroom with its sink of smoky blue ceramic graced with circling fish in simple brushstrokes. We search the rooms thoroughly - no sign of rodents – and agree to stay.
We will not tell the girls about that nest.
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