Mount Wilson Writers

Although this past week has been a harrowing experience for all involved, I wanted to let you all know that at the moment I am safe and sound in Chiang Rai, northern Thailand. As the world prepares for the war that will most likely wipe us all off the face of the earth, I feel suprisingly relaxed in this Buddhist enclave. Though it’s difficult to focus my thoughts on anything but home, I have been attempting such.
This last weekend was full of adventure. I believe I mentioned to some of you the mini-trek that I embarked upon. This began with a one hour canoe ride up river to Karen village, a group of traditional, indigineous Thai. The little girls hawked homemade bracelets and the old men sold knifes (nice looking but probably wouldnt get them on the plane), wood carved elephants, and opium pipes. After being chased down the street by the little girls with their goods we arrived at the elephant depot. I tried not to think about the fact that these huge beasts were shackled at the foot. I asked my guide, Anan, if there were any wild elephants in the regions but, alas, the response I expected was forthcoming. “there used to be a group of elephants roaming this area, but the farmers didnt like them trampling their crops, so they domesticated them. There are currently 35 elephants here in Karen villiage, but they are far from wild.” I assumed as much. Nonetheless, how often do you get to ride elephants in Thailand?
We stopped for a quick lunch of rice and vegetables and then hopped on top of the big ol’ mammals. I suppose the last thing one assumes is that an elephant ride will include a degree of comfort, and this assumption was instantaneously confirmed. My back scraped against the wooden seat, and my entire body jostled to and fro. The ride took about two hours, first adjacent to the rice patties which glistened in the noon sun, past palm tree shacks where natives sheltered themselves from the awful heat. Eventually we began to wind our way up the hillside, the elephants huffing, snorting saliva from their trunks, and slapping their giant ears against their rough exterior in an attempt to cool down. I was also sweating profusely, without working and without weighing anywhere near a ton or two or three. Though the ride was arduous, the scenary was magnificent. Grey clouds settled at the tip of far off mountains, shifting slightly. The entire afforded view was green hillsides and rice fields, apart from the river that snaked along the edge of small villages.
When we finally arrived at the top of the mountain, in the Akha village, the elephants were glad to be rid of the burdensome weight. We needed a rest as well. The hilltribe people gathered around us in their brightly colored dress, their hats laden with silver coins, their teeth and gums black from a root that they enjoy chewing. Of course, the first thing offered to us was Coca-Cola (what a surprise). I drank heartily and snapped pictures of the women and children. Most of the men hid in their huts smoking tobacco, marijuana, and opium.
After about a 20 minute respite, it was time for a hike to the waterfall. The destination that our group of four prized since the journey’s onset. We climbed gently over a slight ridge for about a 1/4 of a mile, before declining steeply down a gorge on the other side of the hill. More elephant trekers past us on their way up. We made it into the valley, and then up and over another small ridge, to the elusive waterfall. At this point I was soaked in my own juices, perspiring from the sun’s punishing rays. As soon as we arrived at the waterfall, I stripped down to my boxer shorts and jumped into the lagoon, about twenty feet wide and about ten feet deep. The force of the waterfall dipped me under to the bottom. After about 20 minutes of splashing and lounging it was on the road again. This time a short stop in another hilltribe village and then a fifteen minute walk to a waiting jeep. In another hour we were home, showered, with Singha beer in hand.
The next day was also an adventure but this time purely by car. Ben (my friend from Korea and traveling mate up until today) and I rented a guide a jeep to take us to the Golden Triangle. The Golden Triangle is reknowned for, among other things, the largest opium and heroin trade in the world. Standing in Thailand, looking northward to the fork in the river, Burma is visible on the left and Laos on the right. The Thai army on occasion has been battling with the Burmese drug mafia, or more appropriately junta, that continues to smuggle illegal substances across both borders of Laos and Thailand. From what I’ve heard it’s much eaiser as an American to gain admitance to Laos. I suppose it’s possible to get into Burma as well, but don’t expect to get out. This jeep tour, though enjoyable, couldn’t compare to the previous days adventure. Nonetheless, it was interesting to view the beautiful hillsides of all three countries. On the return to Chiang Rai, we visited a few wats (temples) and another hilltribe village, who were obviously used to tourists because they asked for 10baht ($0.25) to take pictures. Indigeneous capitalists. Can’t blame em.
That evening turned into a surreal event. Ben and I entered a bar slash restuarant that we had been in before. We choose this place because it was inside, there was a live band, and the waitresses were stunning. We proceeded to buy two bottles of Thai whiskey and three bottles of Thai soda water, the apparent drink of choice amongst the patrons. As we sat at the bar, we notice a table with two western men, three Thai women, and an apparent Sikh with turban wrapped around his head. Feeling somewhat beligerent Ben and I began calling him Bin Laden, which probably didn’t sit too well with the other customers. Anyhow, it turned out to be his birthday, and the waitresses brought him a cake, and the band sang Happy Birthday to him. When asked by the bandleader where his was from, the man responded by saying, Afghanistan. All I could think was how extremely lucky he was to be out of the country. As the night wore on, the band broke after an hour set, and came to sit near me. We began discussing music, though their English was limited. Finally they asked if I would sing with them, and being myself intoxicated enough to do just about anything, I agreed. We finally conferred on a few songs which we both knew, including “Hard Day’s Night,” “Twist and Shout,” and “Dont Cry”(by Guns and Roses). I cant say that I am completely familiar with all the lyrics of that last song, but luckily we were in a bar where spoken English was spoken sparingly. After the first two songs, the Afghani, complete with turban, approached the stage, shook my hand, and asked if I would sing Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA. We never got around to it, nor do I know the words, and unbeknownst to most average citizens that tune is far from pro-American.