Let her eat cake!

I’m sitting on a train that’s slowly chugging its way through the Thai countryside, bound for the rural, reticent, and remote northeast region of Thailand.

Thus far, Issan, as it’s called, has been little more to me than the elusive, far-flung land where some of my most favorite Thai flavors were born—spicy som tam salad, that ever-seductive sticky rice, and the sassy lemon-zing of lahb… no desserts, of course– Thailand is not known for its sweets.  Although seasoned with scattered Khmer ruins and a healthy number of national parks, including Khao Yai at the very base of the region, Issan somehow manages to evade the attention of the tourist trail.  Nearing the end of my month-long holiday, tired after the non-stop action and adventure of my recent family visits, I’m ready to slow it down a couple of notches, and I’ve got a feeling that Issan will be just my speed.

This is, after all, very much like how my month began, and there is something very nice about that circularity—it is my vaca-denouement, if you will.  Except instead of heading northeast, solo on a 7 hour train ride, I started off the month of travel going northwest, in the company of my parents, en route to the mystical town of Sangkhlaburi.

Sangkhlaburi.  Oh, Sangkhlaburi!  It is, without a doubt, my favorite spot in Thailand that I’ve visited so far.  Just miles from the Burmese border, Sangkhlaburi is the most idyllic, mist-shrouded little town– surrounded by purple mountain silhouettes, furtive jungle, and steeped in a medley of Thai, Mon, Karen, and Burmese culture.  Ramshackle houses built on stilts line the Khao Laem Reservoir, as pontoon-like raft-houses with floating bamboo walkways calmly await the rising waters of monsoon season.  The longest wooden bridge in Thailand connects the Thai town to a Mon village on the opposite bank.  During the day, women can be seen crossing the bridge baring heavy loads on their heads, while at night, rooster-headed lampposts light up like two lines of stars across the silken black waters.

Getting to Sangkhlaburi was no easy feat.  The first van driver we tried to hire turned us down because he didn’t want to drive those roads at nighttime, and once we were finally twisting and climbing our way up and around the mountains, I understood why.  Thai people are not renowned for being especially safe drivers, alternating between whichever side of the road most strikes their fancies and/or  patience at any given moment. But our guy was honking his horn at every bend in the road, and I cringed with uncertainty each time he embarked on the climb, praying to all that is good in the world that another car didn’t come flying down the thin mountain road to make us forfeit our patch of pavement.  After a couple hours making our way through civilization, followed by a couple more winding through the mountains of upper Kanchanaburi province in the dark, I think my parents must have been wondering where in hell I had decided to bring them, but when we arrived in Sangkhlaburi, it was well worth our efforts.

Our first day in Sangkhlaburi was spent exploring the Mon village across the way– visiting an Indian-influenced Burmese temple that we agreed, though interesting, was far more beautiful from afar than up close, and stumbling upon a beautiful and sprawling forested monastery that looked and sounded nearly deserted, if not for a bunch of inbred dogs and the monks’ loud and hypnotic chants.  Walking back across the wooden bridge to our guesthouse, we befriended a gang of little Mon boys who were very proud to have captured a blue-headed rango lizard (as they called it… I certainly don’t know my lizards).  I took out my camera to document their accomplishment, and the little guy managed to squirm out of their grasp and right over the edge of the bridge before I got my shot.  The boys scrambled down the (very tall) wooden legs of the bridge to recapture their hostage as Mom and Dad and I continued on our way to find some lunch, but just before we reached the other side of the bridge we turned around to the sound of joyful screams and squeals, our friends sprinting to catch up with us, their arms flailing in the air as they presented the reclaimed (or, more likely, a brand-spanking-new) victim.  The boys, Rango, and I all posed for a photo, and they squealed even louder when we showed them the picture on my digital camera.

We capped the day off with a swim and a long-tail boat ride out to the sunken temple from the old flooded Mon village to watch the sun set, and our night was spent sipping Singhas/horrible, chilled Thai red wine that we ordered, regrettably, upon my request, tasting new Thai dishes, and playing three-person games of Hearts (during which my Dad failed to win the world-championship, if my memory serves me.  All of Thailand cried.).

Day two in Sangkhlaburi was Adventure Day!  When tourists visit Thailand, high priority on everyone’s bucket list seems to be riding on elephant-back.  I’ve done this now with every round of visitors I’ve hosted, but this Sangkhlaburi tour with my parents was in a class all it’s own.  We arrived by pick-up truck in a Karen tribe village following another reservoir boat ride around the towering waterside cliffs and floating community, and it was here that we met our pachydermal friends.  The elephants looked happy and healthy and well-taken care of, and as my mom and I sat perched on top they carried us past jungle-clad mountains and over river waters where kids were cooling off and women were washing the clothes.  Observing Thai hilltribe people going about their lives from atop these mammoth creatures added an element to the experience that elevated it (no pun intended) beyond your average guided pony-ride around a pole.  And for the return trip, we waved goodbye to Dumbo and the gang and mounted bamboo rafts, floating downstream past the same majestic vistas and some bathing water-buffalo on our way.

Being here in Thailand on my own is right for right now. It is an experience that I craved, and because of that I am hopeful and confident that I have a lot to gain from it.  But the sad part is that you can’t always have your cake and eat it too.  If what I crave is travel and adventure, it means leaving the people I love most while I go in search of that. And  sometimes, traveling on your own, or even with friends– but friends from distant places who come from different backgrounds and have different visions for the future, and with whom you really can’t ever be certain when your paths will cross again—you miss out on the post-travel. The “remember when?”- part-of-travel, when you get to relive it all through the stories and perspectives and recollections of your companions. Sitting beside my mom on top of our elephant buddy, admiring the vast Asian landscape together, this is what I was grateful for.  I know that, in all of my travels in Thailand and beyond, Sangkhlaburi is a place that will stick with me, and for that reason I am glad to have shared it with my parents.  Instead of returning home to the U.S. and saying to my parents “Hey Mom and Dad! I visited the most perfectly beautiful and tranquil place… it was called Sangkhlaburi!” I will be able to say, “Hey Mom and Dad! Remember when we went to Sangkhlaburi?”… and that is the really special part.  Sangkhlaburi was an excellent place for us to both check a couple items off the tourist bucket-list and experience some true and authentic Thai culture, but really, every place we went and experience we had was made more special, more memorable, by our being together.  So, it has been a good month. Despite Thailand’s poor selection of dessert items,  throughout my parents’ visit and my siblings’ soon after, I’ve gotten to both have and eat a lot of cake. 🙂

…

(More photos to come– my camera is without its cord at the moment.  In the meantime, I’ve posted some of my parents’ shots.)

Water and Light

View of the River Khwae from the VN Guesthouse hostel

I’m sitting on the porch at my bungalow-style hostel along the River Khwae (Kwai), enjoying a peaceful Sunday morning in Kanchanaburi.  I feel a small amount of shame allowing myself a lazy Sunday morning– we’ll be catching a bus back to Suphan in just a few hours and there is still so much that I want to see here.  But the weekend was non-stop action up until now, and I remind myself that I live here now– there is plenty of time to explore Kanchana in the future.

Besides, it is Loi Krathong!  My entire weekend has been centered around the glorification of water, and the serenity of the morning on the River Khwae seems a fitting bookend to this beautiful holiday. Loi Krathong is celebrated on the first full moon of the 12th lunar month of the Thai calendar.  Forgive me if anyone out there has a better handle on this than I do, but I’ve tried to put the pieces together…

On the main day of Loi Krathong, the Thai people handcraft their “krathongs,”– small boats constructed from a slice of banana tree and folded banana leaves, decorated with flowers, candles, and sticks of incense– and these krathongs are set afloat on rivers, ponds, lakes or at sea; a gesture meant to give thanks to the river goddess and beg apologies for polluting her precious gift.  Yes, many have pointed out the irony of giving thanks to the water right now, with so much of Thailand submerged beneath it.  The other blatant irony is that they apologize for abusing the waters by polluting them more, though people are encouraged to build environmentally conscious krathongs.

Loi Krathong also coincides with another festival originating from the northern provinces and the ancient Lanna Thai Kingdom called “Yi-Peng.”  Sky lanterns made from rice paper are lit and released to dance upwards through the night sky as an offering to the Lord Buddha.  In modern Thailand, the traditions of Loi Krathong and Yi-Peng have merged to become one beautiful, bright celebration of spirituality in water and in light.

Yi-Peng festival in Chiang Mai (flickr.com)

The most well-known display takes place in Chiang Mai, as thousands of Thais and tourists flock to the northern city to see the sky and water ablaze with spellbinding candlelight.  Before arriving in Thailand, I naively assumed I’d be able to make it to Chiang Mai this Loi Krathong to see the magic firsthand; but, alas, the festival took place mid-week, and Chiang Mai is quite a hike from Suphan.  And so, this past Thursday, myself and a few other foreign teacher friends hailed a tuk tuk for a ride to the Suan Nam River to participate in Suphan’s observance of Loi Krathong.

When we arrived at Suam Nam around 7pm no one was setting their lanterns out yet, so we killed time walking around the “Siam Carnival Funfair,”, and nearly killed ourselves by purchasing tickets for the Tagada (dum dum dum).  There are many cases in which we refer to Thai laws as “suggestions,” driving on the correct side of the road, for example, or stopping at red lights.  The Thais take a much more… how should I say this?… “relaxed” approach in their regard of safety.  The Tagada was a prime example of this.  It would have never been legal in the U.S.  It was a flat-bottomed bowl of a carnival ride that spun and rocked and gyrated and bounced its loose contents (read: my friends and I) while we held white-knuckled death grips to its *metal* railings to avoid being flown from our seats.  The general consensus was that it seemed a lot more fun in theory than in practice, as we all exited the ride with sore arms and scrambled brains. Below is my friend Kaitlin showing off her Tagada battle wound:

After the Tagada had had its way with us, we went down to the water to celebrate Loi Kratong and were greeted by the one of the most stunningly bewitching scenes I have ever witnessed.  The entire experience of Loi Kratong and Yi-Peng was like something out of a dream.  Shadows of families gathered in circles around paper sky lanterns, only their faces lit up in the soft glow of their lantern’s light, as each person held to the rim and watched it inflate until the time of release.  Friends and lovers knelt together at the river’s edge as they pushed their krathongs away from shore, splashing water after them to encourage a successful voyage.  My friend Sam, with the help of her students, had made her own krathong at school, so we all looked on as she lit the candle and sent her offering out to the spirit of the water, then we bought sky lanterns and watched them soar up to the heavens.

If only words could do justice. I was entranced.  There was candlelight, everywhere.  Flying through the sky, reflecting on the water.  And everywhere you turned you could see other lanterns, far off in the distance, flying above some other festival somewhere else.  Families were camped out on picnic blankets as the kids waved sparklers through the air.  It was so, so beautiful.  And while I still do hope to make it to Chiang Mai someday, there was something so personal and so spiritual about Loi Krathong in Suphan.

The next afternoon, after the last bell rang to announce the end of school (which I still need to, and will very soon, tell you about), I caught a bus out of Suphan with a group of teacher friends, bound for the province of Kanchanaburi.  If there is a limit for the amount of beauty that one person is allowed to experience in their lifetime, then I think I may have had my share in just these past few days. Kanchanaburi is a popular travel destination in central Thailand, with easy access to limestone caves, forests, and wildlife, but our main objective on this particular trip was to visit the Erawan Falls.

We arrived at the park around noon and left a little after 4pm.  It was quite a long and surprisingly strenuous trek up to the highest level of the falls, but we still had plenty of time to swim, take photographs, do some *minor* spelunking, and visit with some monkeys chilling in the branches on the way up.

My first time seeing monkeys in the wild!

But it was truly Erawan that stole the show.  Talk about glorification of water!  Erawan is a seven-tiered waterfall named for its top level, which supposedly bears a resemblance to the three-headed elephant of Hindu mythology, though I failed to see the likeness.  Elephant or not, the falls were absolutely majestic.  Each tier was more awesome than the last, and the water spilled into pools of aqua so crystal-clear you could see straight to the bottom, and all of the little fishies in between.

Perched on a rock on the 7th tier

On the hike up to the different levels of the falls, I was intrigued by a number of large tree trunks adorned in brightly colored cloth and traditional Thai dress.  After a short stint on Google, I’ve learned that these are meant to represent spirit houses. The Thais are traditionally animistic, so the physical and the spiritual are intertwined.  Spirits inhabit all people and things, and as we learned during our teachers’ orientation as our “village elders” welcomed us by tying thin white strings around our wrists so that our “khwans,” or inner spirits, wouldn’t be scared away, these spirits must be cared for.  In Thailand nearly every building and home has a spirit house on its property– a shrine and shelter for the protective spirit of the place.  These spirit houses are usually small huts set upon alters and surrounded with offerings to appease the spirit, but in the park forests they consisted of cloth tied around trees… perhaps, again, to hold the khwan inside.

The clothed trees of Erawan were home to the same spirit of the water that I had expressed gratitude to at Loi Krathong two days earlier, and in seeing the magnificent falls of Erawan my gratitude to these spirits is only deepened.