Open Path to the Thai North:
A New Journey Through Old Chiang Mai
Hot, yes, and quite humid, too — similar to the human body itself — yet that only adds to the tsunami of senses I experience here. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, textures, temperature, all mixing together in intriguing ways as well as layering on top of my past journeys and experiences, here and elsewhere.
I am reorienting myself to Chiang Mai, a beautiful city in northern Thailand I’ve loved for over two decades, but every orientation includes some disorientation, too. Even more so, perhaps, due to my longstanding occidentation from living in the U.S. Thailand is easy and accessible, fun and familiar to me, yet still always different; it is still Eastern and, dare I say, exotic as well as exoticized, even as it continues to modernize and Westernize, for better and for worse (and it is clearly both). It is easier to reorient, of course, amidst delicious veg food, refreshing smoothies, soothing massages, inexpensive prices, omnipresent beauty, and ubiquitous smiles.
Physically, as well as mentally and culturally, it’s so easy to get lost — and then sometimes surprisingly quickly found — in the maze of alleyways in town. As my student Serena says, “getting lost in Thailand is so much fun because you get to see things you never thought you would, you get to talk to people you wouldn’t have met, and it’s a great way to find out more about yourself.” As is so often the case for me, serendipity has been a good guide.
the chime of a bell
pulls me along one alley
a flower the next
I stepped out of the stream of market goers on Rajdamnern, the central east-west street of the Old City closed to traffic every Sunday evening, to have a cold coconut in an open-air restaurant, listening to two Thai guys playing lovely Spanish-style guitar instrumentals, while gongoozling the market and other activities going on, as they will, with or without us. I was actually wondering why these two talented musicians even had microphones, given that they hadn’t sung or said anything besides mumbling khap khun kraap, thank you in Thai, when all of a sudden, they started singing Hava Nagila!
Although the international patrons seemed to enjoy it as much as their other songs from the genre of world music, I don’t think the mix of Thais and tourists from around the globe had any idea what this Hebrew song was. But I recognize how often that is the case. What did I know of most of the songs they had sung before and after it? How many words do I hear in Thai and yet still don’t recognize? Indeed, there are so many things in my own language and cultures I’m unaware of or, worse, think I am aware of, yet simply misunderstand. I don’t even know anything about Hava Nagila, except that I’ve joyously butchered its words and corybantically danced to it a great many times at Jewish parties.
Being in a Buddhist country, it is especially apt to think about my delusions, misunderstandings, attachments, sufferings, insights, efforts, liberations, concentration, compassion. I couldn’t help but notice that no one bothered to honk — let alone curse, scream, or whatnot — as a motorcycle with three adults on it was going the wrong way on the busy one-way ring that runs inside the moat of the Old City. The Thai philosophies of sanuk and mai pen lai are amply evident here and I have become their diligent disciple.
Sanuk encapsulates the belief that everything can and should be enjoyed in its own way, even if it’s not inherently enjoyable. Life should be fun! Mai pen lai simply means never mind, it’s not important, don’t worry about it. And so they don’t, which leads to having more fun. But radical calmness may also have a downside, as when Thais simply accept what might otherwise be unacceptable. Although The Beatles wrote most of their White Album in the Hindu city of Rishikesh, India, didn’t they almost sing “Take these Buddhist wings and learn to fly / All your lives / You were only waiting for this moment to arise”?
Here on a service learning adventure where they volunteer with local non-profit organizations and we put their experiences into cultural context, my sixteen university students from California have fallen in love, saying they don’t want to leave and yet also want to return. That paradox is yet another that is easily accepted here. (I’m reminded that the Old City is what Chiang Mai, which means New City, was, when it was founded in 1296. The New City has become the Old City, so what is old becomes new again, and what is new, to paraphrase Rav Kook, can become as holy as the old.) As do I, my students love the smiles, the generosity of spirit, the warmth and kindness, the omnipresent beauty — natural, built, human, and otherwise — in Chiang Mai. My student Kayelani remarks that “every day here has been a new and unique experience. The only repetition”, she continues, “is in the excitement for the day, the excitement to try new things.”
Despite their giving through volunteering, or perhaps because of it, many of my students report that they have gotten back so much more than they have given, or even could have imagined: smiles, praise, friendship, kindness, flowers, food, pouches, certificates, invitations, gratitude, and other heart-warming moments and tokens of appreciation. “My heart is forever altered, elevated, and purified by volunteering”, my student Cassidy reflects. “My mind is strengthened and enhanced with wisdom, ultimately improving my mental health and leading to improved physical health. There are many benefits derived by giving. To give is a form of receiving.”
One otherwise-mature student of mine keeps dropping her baht (I know, I know) and Thais with much less money and many fewer worldly possessions keep getting her attention, pointing to the ground, and reuniting her with her misplaced cash and coins. Similar things happened with left-behind cell phones and misplaced sunglasses.
I witnessed an exceptional instance of kindness and generosity on a group trek in the hills around Chiang Mai, passing lush valleys, verdant rice paddies, Karen Hill Tribe villages, wild teak, tamarind, papaya, and banana trees, an escaped water buffalo clearly relishing its freedom, swarms of butterflies, a plant from which you can blow bubbles, and so much more. It was indeed glorious and it all seemed magical.
My student Kalli was taking needed breaks to cope with the extreme discomfort of bleeding blisters on our ascent. Our multilingual guide Montree repeatedly wondered in disappointed amazement why she was wearing “shopping shoes” — his derisive description of her low-top black Converse — instead of appropriate hiking shoes. There was no satisfactory answer, yet there was an unexpected solution. Montree literally took the shoes off his own feet and swapped with her, even though her inadequate shopping shoes were not big enough for him. He simply flattened the backs of her Converse, wearing them as too-small sandals, and we continued our trek through the Thai countryside, Kalli now considerably more comfortable and Montree less so. And this was by no means the only kindness that Montree (and others) exhibited that day. Feeling humbled and in awe, I realized how what I considered my kindness and generosity rarely put me in a worse position to better someone else’s, making me question what those words really mean.
generosity
taking the shoes off his feet
selflessly giving
At the only government-run elephant sanctuary in Thailand, about an hour south of Chiang Mai in Lampang, it was easy to fall in love with Dakhao, a one-year-old elephant. With his surfeit of energy, he propelled his thousand pounds of thick skin and muscular trunk to kick a soccer ball — an adult Asian elephant’s skin is about an inch and a half thick, hence the moniker pachyderm, and its trunk contains some sixty thousand muscles — while his thirty-something mother rested in the shade. Although elephants are undoubtedly big and bulky, they are remarkably careful, gentle, and graceful, as well as social and playful.
Taking notice of his human surroundings, Dakhao quit his solo game to play with us. Feeding him and feeling his powerful trunk, petting and stroking him, and, especially, putting my head against his felt so real, direct, personal, awesome, even spiritual. Then Dakhao would twist his trunk around my arm, pulling me closer, urging me to play more, much like any human toddler might do, despite what I thought was the solemnity and sacredness of our moment together. His emotions and actions seemed so human-like at first, but then I realized they were, in fact, quite elephant-like, as these magnificent mega-herbivores are known to have rich emotional lives, excellent memories, and high intelligence.
Uan, which means Fat, is a busking street musician who isn’t fat (just as my driver Noi, which means Little, isn’t particularly small, but Thai nicknames are typically assigned early in life). Bearded and often barefoot, Uan plays mostly classic American rock on his old acoustic guitar — and sometimes on his makeshift drum set of plastic buckets and homemade cymbals — next to his water-buffalo-skull-decked-out bicycle at Tha Phae Gate, the main gate of the Old City with a plaza for events and gatherings. His limited albeit spirited repertoire includes The Beatles, The Eagles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Neil Young, even Pink Floyd’s The Wall, singing soulfully, even if not getting all the words quite right, which doesn’t especially concern him, but often makes me laugh as I dance along to his music with our “sweet summer sweat”.
Divorced and the mother of a teenage son, Elf owns a small shop down a small, curvy, quiet alley selling fruit shakes, shaved ice, and the like. She works there every day by herself, unless she decides not to for whatever reason, such as attending a classical Thai dance performance or some other cultural event or when she decides to volunteer her translation skills at the police station. And almost every evening after work, she goes next door to her friend’s little restaurant for dinner. She also has a male friend that she goes out with, but says that he is not really a boyfriend, because she only sees him once or twice a week and only loves him seventy percent. That precise accounting of her feelings for him is evidently not enough for their relationship. Looking around awkwardly and unsuccessfully for the name of her little shop, I stepped back in and finally asked her. “No name”, she said with a giggle. It doesn’t need one.
Luciano Pozzo is an Italian grandfather who lived in India for many years, perhaps accounting for the fact that he looks Indian. After (mostly) healing from a devastating road accident there, breaking his neck (!), he decided to move to Chiang Mai, where he offers free hugs to passersby from his tricycle. He says business is pretty good — it apparently has its ups and downs like so many small businesses — though he believes it could be better. Luciano certainly hawks for more customers, with his paper signs and colorful tattoos advertising his free service, yet many people are reluctant to receive a warm embrace accompanied by supportive words and kind wishes from this gentle and generous man. Nonetheless, he is optimistic, perseverant, and absolutely delightful.
I finally found (the famous) Mrs. Pa at the Chiang Mai Gate night market, close to where she lives on Wualai Road. I had read a couple articles about her months ago and she certainly lived up to the hype, which I have found to be quite rare. A refugee from an office job, Mrs. Pa inherited her fruit cart from a friend who married an American. Her smoothies have put her kids through school, her three sons now on their own and dispersed throughout the country, and she hopes to eventually buy a house with her earnings, though she worries about the high cost (she was eyeing an unaffordable place for two million baht, about US$57,000). To master her smoothie business, Mrs. Pa has studied fruit combinations, apparently reading many books on the subject, and purchases the best fruit available at the local markets each day.
Noticing me just gawking at her fruit, she asked what I like and I told her to make me whatever she wanted, something I never do otherwise. Adeptly cutting the fruit in front of me, she makes a smoothie (mango-passionfruit-lychee one evening, mango-pineapple-pink dragonfruit another) that was much better and surprisingly cheaper — only B20–25, or about 55–70 cents US — than most other smoothie makers in town. It paired well with fried taro puffs from a small vegetarian stall accompanied by a homemade sauce that was mostly sweet and a little spicy, just the kind of flavor combination that is so emblematic of Thai food and, perhaps, Thai people.
Phra Nanta, a monk from Burma — his mother is Shan and his father was Paoh — is currently in residence at Wat Jedlin, an intriguing temple in the Old City with a fish pond and a huge, deeply-resonant gong. I met him last year at a small temple west of the Old City and it was delightful to finally see his contagiously-glowing smile again. Phra Nanta loves being a monk because he gets to learn everyday, live a simple life, and be happy. He eventually wants to teach English — and happiness — back in Burma, whether as a monk at a temple or a layperson in a school. On a subsequent visit, my students were grateful to learn from him about suffering, happiness, wisdom, mindfulness, death, and much more, as Phra Nanta practiced his English, one of the six languages he knows at 27 years old. He only knows a little Mandarin, so that doesn’t count yet.
an ignorant mind
without knowledge of itself
missing mindfulness
An artist from China who goes by the name of Lisa used to do a lot of her artwork in black-and-white. After moving to Chiang Mai, she was inspired by the city’s beauty and liveliness and she now works mostly in bright colors and abstract art as well as some collage. Miraculously, Lisa sells a lot of her art for free. Technically, it’s not for free; it’s for happiness, as she says with her big, bright smile. Lisa signed the piece she generously gave me, refusing to accept payment, and also wrote on it “Happy everyday”.
That I have the privilege to be here in Chiang Mai, and to be able to return, is lucky enough; that I now get paid to do so is mind-boggling; that I can bring students and have them contribute to Thailand through their volunteerism and service learning, while they enjoy, bond, explore, discover, and grow is a monumental blessing and honor, which I do not take lightly.
To paraphrase Basho, the great seventeenth-century Japanese haiku master who inspired the title of this piece:
even in Chiang Mai —
hearing the gecko cry out —
I long for Chiang Mai
Stories about my excursions to local craft factories, a tea plantation where I was the only guest, the women prisoners’ vocational training center, the exclusive Dhara Dhevi hotel, Karen Hill Tribe villages, the mostly-magnificent Mae Pui waterfall, bamboo rafting in a snake-filled river, the U.S. Consulate, the Silver Temple at night, an open-pit lignite mine, the Chiang Mai Grand Canyon, and elsewhere in Chiang Mai, as well as other people I’ve met there, will have to wait for another time.
This verbographic sketch is longer than I expected it to be, so now I’m in the mood for another smoothie and massage. Why not?
Dan Brook, Ph.D. teaches sociology at San Jose State University, from where he organizes the annual Hands on Thailand (HoT) program. Dan also has a free ebook of travel inspiration called GO! Travel Quotes to Send You Off.
One Last Thing…
Please tap the ♥ button if you found this article worthwhile. Also please share on social media. Thanks in advance! 😊
