Chiang Mai to Pai

I flew into Chiang Mai from Surat Thani airport because I’m lazy and have an erroneous sense of how much spending money I’ve got stockpiled for this trip. As penance, I booked accommodation at a hostel just outside of town, although I’ve realised at this stage that hostels simply aren’t my bag. I love the price tag and provided there’s a little curtain I can draw around my bed, and I can take a shit in privacy, I’m generally fine. However, I don’t deal well with other people invading essentially the only space that belongs to me. When travelling at the (mostly) budget end, privacy can be hard to come by- I mean I practically sing for joy at the sight of an empty bus seat beside me- and the last thing I need is for this precious space to be disturbed by some goober flipping on light switches and talking on their phone at an ungodly hour, or else engaging in an endless ceremony of zipping and unzipping, accompanied by furtive rustling. This hostel had reviews that included comments along the lines of: great swimming pool, and big bed, very comfy, and less generous, often contradictory appraisals; room smells of mildew, terrible swimming pool, too much chlorine. I found the pool to be excellent and the smell of mould emanating from the bathroom to be especially heinous. A snatch of conversation between two twenty-one-year-old girls sitting in the bed next to mine made me despair at the state of the sisterhood abroad:

‘…she acts like she’s too good for everyone and so hot and all that and then me or some other girl comes in and she’s like, lost all her confidence.’

‘Yeah, I know right. Like, get some confidence, bitch.’

I wonder why she was struggling with her self-image.

Chiang Mai is a beautiful city and my first taste of the real north of Thailand. The old town is surrounded by broken sections of brick wall and moats, and the streets are lined with cafes and flower shops and tattoo parlours and fruit stalls. The Lost Book Shop was brilliant, even if shopping there means doing business with the prickly but sharply intelligent owner. Disappointingly, the ‘Rasta bars’ barely emitted a whiff of the low-key authenticity of the Thai Rasta lifestyle I encountered in the south. I did meet a Thai friend at one of these places though, and he showed me around town on his incredibly cool Triumph motorcycle and wound up giving me a small tattoo. I established early that I was only interested in friendship because as has been the case with other Thai men I’ve met, I suspected that there may be a catch to his generosity. Then when he began to declare his affection for me while insisting on buying me beer, I had to be blunt as the feeling was not reciprocated in that way. Fortunately, he took it well, and we’re still in touch. I am not one to protest having my negative assumptions challenged, and I must admit, where men are involved, my assumptions are most negative indeed.

From here, I travelled further north-west on the backpacker trail to Pai. A few weeks prior, I met a flamboyant Thai woman in Koh Phayam who reminded me of a favourite aunt. She was the owner of an organics store there on the island but lived in Pai during the low season. We got chatting and she offered for me to say in her house just outside of town for 150 baht per night. Considering I’d be hard pressed to find a hostel for less than 200, I couldn’t refuse. The wheels were set in motion despite her not knowing some practicalities of the arrangement, such as her address. She did write- in Thai- the name of her landlord who would have the key, and the name of a temple close(ish) to her house. Predictably, this posed something of a challenge as far as navigation went, but upon arrival, and a whole lot of sweaty, mutually frustrated questioning sessions with locals, I found the joint.

The house was a humble, wooden structure, traditional Thai style with lots of thought given to how to construct outdoor spaces so they’d be inhabitable all year round. Outside, there was a rickety picket fence and friendly neighbourhood cat. I was given access to the upper level of the house, which included a lounge/bedroom with a single mattress on the floor, a kitchen with gas bottle for cooking my own meals, and a bathroom with hot water. But the star of the show was a comparatively enormous deck perched above a pond that played host to a myriad of wild birds and served as a vantage point for watching village life unfold. It was beautiful. Once had unpacked my few possessions and hung my creaseables in the cupboard, I rode into town and sniffed out some spaghetti and pasta sauce which cost a small fortune. Thrilled to be cooking for myself again, I took my spoils out to the deck and fed my face while the sun set behind the houses beyond the pond.

April 11 marked the day of the great (and terrible) motorbike accident. But I wasn’t to know that yet. I woke late, casually scooting my way to a breakfast of ‘smashed avo’ on toast at a café with the words ‘art’ and ‘chai’ in its name. There I got chatting to a cool Canadian chick who was keen to spend the afternoon lounging and reading by the pool at the aptly named ‘Pool Bar’. Excellent! I rode home and got my bathers, stopping on the way back on walking street to stock up on bananas and Thai plums; my new fruit obsession.

My first impression at places where there is a pool is always ‘Oh my god, this is where the beautiful people dwell!’ Shielding my eyes from any potential bathing beauties, I commenced a series of awkward behaviours that ended up with me squirreled away at table in the shade. Cool Canadian hadn’t arrived yet so I fished a book from my backpack and proceeded to read, hopefully nonchalantly, while standing in the pool.

Beside me, I heard a woman say to her partner ‘Visit Australia? Oh, god no. Doesn’t interest me AT ALL.’ I knew instantly that she was American by the volume with which she expressed an opinion (excuse the generalisation, I’m being salty).

I felt myself frown.

But why? Was I feeling the stirrings of national pride? How dare this American not want to visit my beautiful, sunburnt country? My human-rights violating, bigoted, entitled, ignorant…motherland! With all its historical injustices, and eucalyptus trees. Its vast, thirsty fields of gold. How could she not want to experience the beaches of NSW? those glorious stretches of sand that are, in my mind, frozen in the year 1973. Or see cows huddled under the shade of a lone tree. Or lightning cracking over a cane field. The impossible red earth of the red centre. How could anyone not fall in love with Australia hiking through the Dandenong Ranges, or along the Mornington’s Peninsula’s rugged coastline? face chapped by wind, eyes alive.

‘Hey girl.’ It was the Canadian, interrupting my brief and confounding mental love-in. It occured to me that even though I technically had no home, I might be missing more about Australia than just the people.

‘This music is hectic for a lazy afternoon by the pool don’t you think?’ She was referring to the thumping bass that did indeed seem at odds with the vibe of the thing.

I volunteered to ask the DJ if he had a ‘chill’ playlist. He did, only the tunes that followed were less ‘5pm after work drinks at fancy city bar’ chill, and more ‘meditation session for insomnia sufferers’ chill.

‘Sorry, I tried.’

The American heard me and laughed and then we became pals. As you do.

‘Steph! You’re hilarious! Come and have dinner with us on walking street!’ I told her I was keen but would need to duck home to get some more cash.

‘See ya soon, girl!’ said the Canadian.

Only she didn’t, because that’s when it happened. Speeding with the false confidence that allows a tourist to forgo any safety gear- bar a helmet, thankfully I’d learnt at least that from my last stack- I leaned into a corner at 50km per hour and in a split second felt the bike come out from under me. It slid 20 metres along the sandy bitumen before bouncing off a concrete barrier and coming to a stop beside the road. I was thrown off, and the force sent me on elbows and knees and thigh and stomach, hurtling after it. I was aware of every inch of skin that road took away, which was plenty, since my shorts and singlet had ridden up and the softest parts of my skin, the parts that rarely see the sun, copped the worst of it. A man appeared and then two men, and then a family of five joined the witness party. Someone called an ambulance. As the shock wore off, I began to feel the pain. No waves, just a steady crescendo of stinging and burning as blood breeched the grazed surfaces. One of the men tried to start my bike but nothing happened. Hearing the kick start fail over and over set me off crying. Well, it was less like crying and more like a sort of helpless moaning that I imagine was a bit disconcerting for the bystanders. The ambulance arrived and took me to hospital where they saw to me quickly and doused my wounds in pure alcohol while I screamed and tried to get off the bed. I was shivering despite the heat, and still moaning. I’m sure I caught the nurses snickering at me. They bandaged me up; five large gauze pads complete with bandages around both knees and elbows, and then they thrust a piece of green paper at me which I understood was the bill.

‘I don’t have any money on me, I was just going home to get some.’ The only part that was clearly understood by the hospital staff was the part about having no money. 10 minutes later, four ‘tourist police’ officers arrived, paid my bill, and motioned for me to get in their car so they could escort me home.

‘Where is your hotel?’ One of the officers asked.

‘Err, I’m not staying in one. It’s a house.’

‘Whose house?’

‘A friend.’

‘Thai?’

‘Yes.’

The men started muttering between themselves. Uh oh.

‘What’s the address?’

‘I don’t know.’

Fucking hell. No money, no address, no friends to call. This looked grim.

‘Your friend is in a lot of trouble. Renting her house to farang is illegal.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘Please, no.’

But they continued like that and I continued pleading with them and sobbing until we arrived back at her place where I paid them, and their tune suddenly changed.

‘Maybe we just give her a warning.’ And with that, the police left. I was alone.

Sleeping was difficult and when I finally awoke from my night of writhing around on the mattress on the floor I found getting up was even harder. It took me a full five minutes to get myself to the toilet and another five to lower myself onto it. Someone had managed to start my bike and, filled with dread, I hobbled outside to look at the damage.

‘Fuck,’ I breathed.

The thing was scratched to shit. A foot peg had broken, the muffler was dented, and there were numerous cracks in the faring. When I saw the helmet, I began to cry afresh; there was deep gash along the left side, still covered in dirt. I knew with certainty that if I wasn’t wearing it, I probably wouldn’t have left the hospital the night before.

The next week was like Groundhog Day. Wake up, hobble to the closet street to hail a taxi, get my dressings changed at the hospital, hobble to 7-Eleven to stock up on food, taxi home. I wasn’t allowed to get the dressings wet which made the Thai New Year (Songkran water festival) a complete nightmare and total disappointment of what I felt was my own making.

It didn’t take long before cabin fever set in. I found myself wishing the police would come to check on me. Holed up in the house I had looked upon with adoration mere days before, I began to resent my new abode. I had to go up and down a small set of stairs to use the bathroom; each time a tiny agony. I couldn’t shower. I had run out of toilet paper and forgot to get more at the shop. It was hot. Really hot. The mattress on the floor felt 10,000 miles away whenever I lowered myself onto it. Or when I tried to get back up again. The cat that hung about mewled loudly at all hours of the night and I discovered I was definitely allergic to it. I listened to the same few episodes of a podcast I’d down loaded on repeat as the wi-fi I managed to pick up from god-knows where was (un)surprisingly temperamental.

On the fifth day of this grim routine, I decided I wanted out. Despite having paid the woman for her house in advance, I cut my losses and booked into an air-conditioned room near the hospital.

I packed my things and didn’t look back as the picket fence swung closed behind me.

P.s. Incredibly, the broken bike set me back a measly 500 baht, which the owner took out of what I’d paid in advance to rent the thing. No kidding; I am one lucky farang.