Thailand Part 4: Returning by Way of Pattaya

Pattaya, Where the Twain Meet.

Jan. 5

We arrived at our second-to-last hotel, in the resort town of Pattaya City, on the afternoon of the 4th. I had thought it was a suburb of Bangkok, but in fact, it's about an hour and a half on the highway from the Bangkok Airport.

We were on the Walking Street the first night and hit a few bars. We also stumbled into a discotheque and stumbled right out again. Even though it is technically closed to motor vehicles at night, we had to dodge a few motorbikes and other vehicles. Somebody brought in a classic old-man car with fins. It was low, wide, long, and excessive, white with black trim and chrome. It may once have belonged to the 5,000-year-old pimp. On the way out I was almost run over by a Mercedes. The plate number was a single digit, and Larry says it must be a politician. They're alike everywhere.

Anywhere you turn somebody is trying to sell you something on the street. There is some street food, but far less than in Chiang Mai or Bangkok. Instead, people sell things like hammocks, toy lasers, glowing plastic helicopters, or themselves. 

I can't quite describe this place. It has many of the elements that Bangkok is reputed to have. You can walk down the street and see a family of tourists with their kids, hookers, and Russian gangsters, all on the same block. Think of Seaside Park or Wildwood, N.J.: boats on the water, parasailing, a beach, Put that on steroids (primarily testosterone) and mix with a kind of Las Vegas Gone Wild. 

For instance, this is the first time I have roomed at a hotel that includes condoms in the mini-bar. Beginning about five in the afternoon, when I’m in my room, I can hear the music from the saloons below in the street. If I step out onto the terrace, I can feel the heavy bass. And that's coming from six floors down.

This is one of those places where the West has collided with the East and the accident scene is in chaos. Upscale hotels and shopping centers are next to street markets, with open stalls selling leather goods, underwear, souvenir brass knuckles, and other essentials. There is all kinds of food. One menu at a brew pub offers dishes ranging from pizza and spaghetti to bierwurst and Thai pork. That was at a place called the Hopf Brew House, a German theme restaurant that brews its own beer. The pizza is very good Euro style. 

The mix of food choices lets a farang, who may be retired and living here or just passing through, order a steak, while his Thai lady, who may be his wife or someone he has hired to be his girlfriend for an hour or two, can enjoy pad thai or red curry.

It's a collision of all things cultural. In one lane off the Walking Street is a Malaysian halal food stand run by bearded Moslems right next to a hotel that advertises room rentals of three hours for 300 baht. 

We are in a hotel called the Eastiny 7. (Said like "Easton"—as in Pennsylvania—with a diminutive ending added.) It sits on a side street called Soi 7. Starting across the street and continuing to the beach road is a warren of bars. Most of them are open to the air and serve beer only in bottles. Many also serve girls.

I went out for walk this morning. I put on sunblock, a T-shirt, and a linen jacket, which is dripping dry in the closet as I write. 

I'm back at the hotel and hiding from the heat. I got only semi-lost. I walked about a mile too far. 

On the way back, I was looking for Harry's Bar, which Larry had mentioned. I had already found Harry's Fashion on the Walking Street and a "no weapons" sign outside the Sweethearts a Go-Go bar.

Brian, my daughter's significant other, had heard about signs like that outside bars in Thailand and wondered what a place would be like that had them. Brian, it would be like Pattaya.

I spent two hours or more prowling up and down the Walking Street last night, looking at the lights and the strange sights. I couldn't believe how different it looks in daylight. For one thing, it is open to vehicles during the day. That's how they get the cases and kegs of Chang and Singha to the bars. 

Anyway, there are Harry's Bars in many places. Perhaps they are in acknowledgment of the support I give to their industry. Harry's Fashion—I don't know. I am the only farang who goes out in a jacket. Every time I do, ten guys get into my face telling me how they can make a duplicate "at best price."

Never did find the bar, but lots of other strange stuff. The beach is full of Russians. Some of them wear Speedos. Enough said.

I haven't seen so many signs in Russian since the last time I passed through Brighton Beach in Brooklyn.

The side streets are full of tailor shops, bars, strip clubs, nail salons, and 7-Elevens. A couple of streets, I found, have specialties. One area is known as Boyz Town, and there is a lane that has a lady-boy bar and a few other related attractions. Lady boys are a phenomenon associated with Thailand. They are neither transvestites nor transsexuals, but a gender in between.

When I signed up for my Asian Gmail account, Google requested the usual demographic information. Perhaps because I was signing up from Thailand, when it asked for gender, the options were male, female, and other. 

This is the view from the steps in front of the Eastiny 7 hotel, looking toward the beach on the Gulf of Thailand.

It is now more than 30 hours after my arrival in Pattaya. I have hit a wall and have been walking around like a zombie for the past two hours. We'll probably cab it back to the airport hotel tomorrow afternoon. Right now, this old man needs a sound night's sleep.

Good night, all.

Back Home

Jan. 8

There's no worse place to be than an airport. Larry was on his way to Saigon and my flight to Tokyo was scheduled to leave shortly after his. Both flights were going out early, so we stayed Friday night at a hotel called the Great Residence, just outside Suvarnabhumi, the Bangkok airport. [Editor’s note: Harry seems to have learned to spell the airport’s name after his third pass through it.] It was sort of like one of the motels in the Meadows, in the shadow of the Jersey Turnpike.

They had a restaurant, where I decided to get two cups of coffee to go. If I put them in the refrigerator in the room, there would be iced coffee when I woke up at four. They told me there would be a wait of 10 minutes. It seems nobody in Thailand orders coffee in the afternoon. They brought me one, in a porcelain cup. No, two. Song (which I think is two in Thai). Take away (which is "to go" in British and in the Thai brand of English). They had no idea what I was talking about. Crazy farang.

I stacked two cups, put a saucer on top and got them across the parking lot and up three floors to my room. I had no expectation that I would make it, but was damned sure going to try. Wow. I did it.

An enterprising cab driver had found a business opportunity in the isolation of the place. He offered to take us to a market about 10 minutes away. "It's not a shopping mall, is it?" Larry says. "No, no, a market." "Thai food?" "Yes, Thai food." So for 400 baht, a little less than $15, we hired a cab for two hours. 

We passed some interesting stalls along the road, and that looked promising. But the driver left them behind and about a mile up the road made a left into Paramus, N.J. McDonald's, KFC, a Tesco food market, and stores selling clothes, jewelry, knickknacks, and whatnots. 

The stores had set up garment racks outside in the plaza, so there was space only for a thin line of Thai carts selling meat on a stick and sweets. The beer was being sold next to the two loudspeakers providing the soundtrack for the entire mall and the far reaches of the parking lot. We tried to get the bartender to turn the music way down, or better yet, off. He either couldn't understand what we were asking, or else couldn't believe that anybody, even a farang, would be crazy enough not to appreciate the sound system.

Even I wasn't pleased with this place. It was nice enough, but I can get nice anywhere, even in Indiana. This also constituted an instance of messing with food, so you can probably take a good guess at Larry's state of mind.

Luck was with us, as usual, because after a few minutes of bewilderment, we met the driver. He had seen us wandering in circles and came up to see how we were doing. "We want to go to the other market." Blank stare. "The one we passed." "You want to go there?" Crazy farang. But he took us. And it was worth it. We stepped under the roof, onto the concrete floor, under the bare light bulbs. As Larry put it, "Welcome back to Asia."

There was produce, meat, and seafood on display and we could smell the cooking. I don't know what all goes into Thai food—green and red chiles, garlic, basil, maybe lime, ginger, coconut—but you can breathe and say, "Thai." The same way we can identify other kinds of food—French, Italian, Chinese, even good WASP (think home fries, or steak)—by smell, unless they are being made bland, as they may be at a mall. An elephant can do it from at least 4 kilometers away.

There was a family selling fresh fish. The man and one of the kids were squatting on the floor, removing the heads and entrails. Of course, we could not smell the fish, because it was so fresh. I didn't see any plastic bags of live eels, as I did in Chiang Mai, but they may have been there. Didn’t see fried insects either, but then I didn't ask.

We bought something that looked like an empanada to start and then a bag of assorted deep-fried vegetables, and a browned rice pancake. When I first picked it up, I thought it was a take on hash-brown potatoes.

We were the only farang in the place, and nobody looked at us as if we were crazy. These people were busy.

Later we came to an area with tables and several food stands. We sampled a couple of kinds of flavored rice. Larry said one may have been cooked with a little pork blood. There was a fatty pork in gravy with something pickled—maybe bean sprouts—on the side. There was also the very hot green papaya salad. It's delicious but I need a lot of rice to calm the burn. As he was digging in, Larry started to pour sweat. It was running all over his head, like tears of utter joy. 

Would the temperature of this climate drop maybe five or ten degrees if they took all the chiles out of the country?

The driver was waiting for us outside the 7-Eleven. There's always one of those. He was killing time over a large beer, so we joined him with beers of our own. Larry gave him a tangerine, and then we headed back. All in all, a fitting way to end a visit.

I had about 30 hours to make the transition back to my home planet. The Great Residence is a Thai hotel. The room is plain and could be at a Super 8 or Holiday Inn in the Meadowlands, only they speak a different language. Plumbing is always a hint that you're somewhere else. Pattaya caters to foreigners and so is a little more Western. There was a tub, for instance.

Most places where I showered in Thailand had little or no separation of the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. One had a glass panel to keep the shower from splashing on anyone who may have been using the toilet at the same time. In most cases, the shower was one corner of the bathroom. Except in Pattaya, the water only runs cold in Thailand. 

The shower is the Continental type, the spray head is on a hose so you can pick it up and spray yourself all over. This is more convenient than the fixed head we are more used to at home, especially when the water pressure, as it is in almost every motel I have visited, is low. If you can take the sprayer and hold it three inches from your arm, for instance, the suds wash off better because you take advantage of the entire volume of water. 

The water heater is a unit on the wall. At one place, I had to push a button to turn it on. In the others, it came on with the water. 

I was looking for soap at the Great Residence and it was only in the morning that I noticed the dispenser on the wall in the shower corner. I prefer bar soap, because I usually wind up wasting most of the liquid soap I use. I had brought a bar with me, so that was OK. Shampoo from the dispenser was very handy. Take some for my hair. Take more for my whiskers. I may get one for home.

The plane was late getting out of Bangkok, and there was a short turnaround for my flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. My ticket said 17:00. When I got to the end of the security line at Narita, it was 16:30. So I told everyone "I have a plane leaving at 7. No, 5." and they promoted me to the head of the line because they feared I was either mathematically illiterate or delusional and therefore possibly disruptive.

As it turned out, I had my usual difficulty dealing with forms and schedules. That was the boarding time. My flight, UA0890, according to my voucher, was supposed to take off at 5:45, although the board had departure time at 5:40 and the gate had it at 5:30. That may all have been consistent, in fact, considering gate closings, departure from the gate, and extra point conversions. But I had been up since 4 a.m. Bangkok time and now I was wandering around somewhere in the future or the past, so I was a bit hazy on a lot of concepts. Net score: No longer farang. Possibly Yankee. Still crazy. But I was on a plane and pretty sure it was the right one.

To live and die in L.A. may be better than spending time at an airport. I can't say for sure, because this trip I was only passing through LAX for a couple of hours. I haven't seen the city since the early 90s, and that has lasted me. 

Get this: I'm coming through airport customs for the fourth time in the past 13 months, and I forgot the declaration form. I had to go back and fill one out. I filled out an immigration form, too, just in case the rules had changed. I was given hardship consideration here too and allowed to return to the head of the line.

I had put my vest on before I got off the plane in Los Angeles. There is a buckle at the back. TSA is on high alert here. Maybe they always are. Everybody gets a scan. You can't even leave your handkerchief in your pocket. So I go through and the way is barred. The agent at the scanner "wants to check my back." I added LAX to the list of places where I have been subject to government search.

OK. I'm on the last leg. I stop to have a beer with lunch because I can: Somebody else is driving. A few barstools away is a 30-something kid on a cell phone. I hear him order a white Russian. Then he says something to the bartender. Apparently one of his backpacks is missing, the one with the skateboard sticking out of it. I suggest he retrace his steps. It's probably still there; most people are honest. 

So he went. He just walked off, leaving his other bag on his seat and several small bills on the bar. He came back about five minutes later with the bag. He had left it and security had seized it.

After bonding over an instance of lost and found, I learn that this is Fred. We are on the same flight to Newark. He is going home to New York before leaving for Uruguay to go skateboarding.

He has been skateboarding in Thailand too, a year ago. I guess it can be done. He knew about the moat at Chiang Mai. He told me about a traffic accident in which he bound up injured people with his shirt and socks, and sent them to the hospital in his tuk-tuk. Then because it was so late, he had to wander shirtless for hours. 

It can be done. But he has also consumed a lot of white Russians.

So many, in fact, that when he orders another, he is flagged. "I want you to get home safe," the bartender says and pours him two tall glasses of water.

Just when I thought adventures were over on this trip, I have a drunken skater to watch over on his way to the gate. Get your wallet, your credit card, both bags. He's doing all right for someone so well lubricated. When we get to the gate, he mounts his skateboard and casually rides it to the men's room. I figured that's where he went, because I lost sight of him in the crowd. When I could see the far end of the hall, there was no wreckage there.

He shows up a few minutes later, phone at his ear, heading for the gate. Job over. 

When next I see him, he joins the queue for the lavatory in the plane and he is pouring Jack Daniel's into a plastic cup. 

My last sight of him was gliding past me at Newark on the way to the baggage claim. I wonder if he could do that sober.

Today's photo was taken from my room in Pattaya. It is looking roughly the same direction as the street scene I sent the other day.

So I am back in Montclair and am sending this e-mail after getting in a good 12-hour's sleep.

Harry

Thailand Part 3: From Monks to Elephants

Hot Time in the Old Town

Jan. 2

In order to achieve additional much-needed merit, Larry and I left the hotel at 6 Monday morning to feed the monks.

We had directions, but misunderstood them and wound up a few blocks away without a temple in sight. We retraced to the hotel and went in the other direction. We had expected a big gathering of guys in long saffron coats, which are hard to miss. But still no crowd of monks. We turn down a street full of wats, and one monk, a very young kid, comes out and turns in the direction we are going. OK, let's tail him. He seems to be going for take-out. Better and better, there's another monk coming back our way, and he looks like he's carrying a full bowl.

We come to an aromatic alley and down that is a food market. While we're standing wondering what to do next (Do we buy a monk an apple? Do we give him a bag of rice? Do we buy him vegetable curry?), an older monk strolls down the alley and stops facing a storefront. A smiling lady immediately emerges with a plate holding what looks like a bag of cooked rice and something wrapped in a leaf, and she gives that to the monk.

Informed by this example, we bought several kinds of food in plastic bags from a vendor. Then we set off to find a monk.

On the way back to the block with all the wats, we meet a monk whom Larry treats. I took a couple of bad photos of the event with Larry's camera. I know now that I should have gone around to the opposite side of the exchange because all I got of Larry was his back in a plaid shirt. But that's all right. This gets better.

Next block there is one more monk, who looks about eight. In the time since Larry and I passed this way, a lady has set up a folding table outside the wall of the temple and is dispensing portions of food. She gives one or two to each passing monk and receives a blessing in return. Meaning no irreligion or cultural insensitivity, this may be irreligious and culturally insensitive. It may also get Larry's goat again by making a comparison. 

You have a child in what to a Western eye is unusual costume receiving treats from a smiling lady. This is like Halloween every day. This is great. And it's good for your soul. Does it get better than that?

That was going to be today's photo, but it does actually get better.

I gave the food I had to another young monk. I didn't get a formal blessing. But then, neither did Larry. Maybe we were so much taller than these kids that when we bowed, they didn't notice. 

We head back toward the hotel and turn onto that street that starts with "Ram" where the Yamaha dealer is. What to my wondering eyes should appear, but a tall monk and a team of 30 little guys, all in a line. All carrying bowls. All barefoot. Wow. That was going to be today's picture, but then things got even better. 

A man in a white shirt was standing on the sidewalk with a bag. We thought at first that the monks were receiving something from him, but no, they were putting empty containers into the bag. He was helping the monks get rid of their trash. They were eating, or at least drinking, as they went, and he was relieving them of the empty containers. As we went past, the man started a conversation. 

He told us to continue straight to a place that sounded like the Em Hotel, where there was food. We duly hastened expecting to find vendors from whom we could buy nourishment for these kids. The leader looked maybe in his 20s, and the rest were not full grown yet. 

We found a few people setting up a food station, a table with a supply of things. I offered to pay, but was told that this was free, provided by the hotel and these people were employees. For each monk, the staff made up a plate that had a plastic cup of water or clear juice (not sure which, since I can't read Thai), something wrapped in a leaf, a bag of sticky rice, and a cup-shaped delicacy that looked like it might be custard. They handed plates to us—Larry and me and maybe three other foreign tourists—who took each portion of food from the plate and put it individually into a monk's bowl. This continued until the whole line had been given food. A man from the hotel took our cameras and shot pictures of us feeding the monks. Now, that is today's photo—Larry and Harry, the two farang feeding the monks. 

(Larry put a couple of shots, including this one, on Facebook and had "like this" responses from four people in about the first hour, so I hope everybody finds it fun.)

I thought when the last monk had been fed, that would end it, but there was more to come. They were all lined up waiting around the corner, where we went and knelt in front of them while they chanted a blessing over our heads. 

The man in the white shirt, who had accompanied the procession of monks, later told us that this particular ceremony is held only on Monday, which is the king's birthday. Larry told me the monks go out this early because they can only eat in the hours between dawn and noon.

Everything I have encountered here has been wonderful, but as Larry has pointed out, strange things tend to remind me of familiar things, especially places.

But Larry, I have to admit that this was absolutely unique. This did not have any of the feeling of Halloween at all. What's more, nobody anywhere, not even in Greenwich Village or North Carolina, has ever chanted a blessing over my head for giving him food in the street. That is unique in my experience to Chiang Mai.

When we got back to the hotel, I was putting the final touches on yesterday's e-mail messages, and downloading the photos of us being virtuous so I could send them to Larry.

After an hour, I was going downstairs to the cafe, where the Internet connection is better, to send everything. I met Larry coming up the stairs. You don't have to send that now. It's the middle of the night back there. Come outside. I have a surprise for you.

It was a Honda motor bike. And just in time. It is so hot today that I'm having a hard time walking anywhere. The morning's foray in pursuit of monks was fine. It was actually cool, but things started to get serious by mid-morning.

So the bike made it easy to go to a local market, where we bought breakfast of noodle soup with pork bones and, of course, chiles. We bought some sausage, pork cracklings, almond-flavored cakes, and other stuff. We had the sausage and cakes with beers at the hotel. 

Then it was time to go to the new hotel, which is nicer and has terraces. It's also on a quieter street and right next to the laundry. Also closer to the U.N. and the Chiang Mai Saloon. 

Anyway, Larry said he could drive the luggage to the new place, so we wouldn't have to lug it in the heat. He started with the part of the plan that involved me sitting on the back—which I am almost used to doing after riding around all morning— with my bag in front of me.

I walked. I arrived. Worse for the heat, but not for a fall backwards from a bike. I know Harry. I fall off my bicycle from time to time. It's all I can do to hold on when it's just me on the Honda with no bag.

Riding the bike has been fine because there is always a breeze, but any walking we have done has knocked me out today. The heat is so bad that I had to hide from it in my hotel room from about 4 until the sun went down. 

But all has not been hiding. We rode around the moat, went to the university neighborhood, where I had an omelette in an upscale Thai luncheonette, mainly because it was so hot I had to back off the chiles. (Larry got a double hit of chile from his salad and his green curry fried rice, and even he was sweating from it.)

On the walk from the luncheonette back to the bike, we stopped at what may be Thailand's only wine shop. It has been open five days, the lady behind the counter said. Larry was much impressed that anyone would open a retail store selling wine in Chiang Mai. Wine is very heavily taxed and is expensive in Thailand. 

In addition to having formal training in wine, and experience selling it, Larry also teaches Thai employees at resorts to sell food and drink. He left his name and e-mail address, offering to help if they had any questions.

Larry

Jan. 2

P.S. to everyone: you need to experience this all for yourselves in

the Land of Smiles.

Happy New Year.

Off to See the Elephants

Jan. 3

God, I was beat last night. I think I had a total of three beers all day and hit the pillow by 10. The heat had given me a touch of indigestion and a headache in the afternoon. That omelette for lunch helped cure that.

So this morning, I was up betimes, like Samuel Pepys—well, by quarter to seven, anyway—and off for coffee.

I went barefoot, in case I met any monks. Larry found out afterwards that we were supposed to take our shoes off to feed them and take the blessing. The Thai, however, seem largely gracious, even-tempered, and tolerant. After all, they are Buddhists who eat pork.

I also was going barefoot in preparation for my next aventure. But more about that later.

I stopped at a local convenience store in our lane and asked for coffee. Pronounced with the back vowel "ah", "coffee" is a universal word.

So is "7-Eleven," because that is where the lady suggested I go. She had no coffee in her shop.

Better yet, a Starbucks knockoff, across the street from where we fed the monks, was open.

I am due at nine in front of the tour guide's shop. Yes, gentle friends, Harry has signed up for a tour. As usual, I have found it is the only practical recourse I have to get some place I need to visit. I'm off for the hills, and maybe jungle, and definitely elephants. I will embark within an hour on a half-day of training as an elephant mahout.

It is an earthy experience, I am sure. The tour instructions say to bring a bathing suit, sun block, insect repellent, soap, shampoo, towel, and a change of clothes. The lady at the tour office said the elephant place provides a change. I don't care. I'm going to ride elephants.

More later.

HH

New Friends and Quadrupeds

Jan. 3

Yes, friends, I have been out of the city and seen the elephant. And many of her pals.

I read in the Jan. 2 Bangkok Post this morning that there are monsoon rains and severe flooding in southern Thailand. Chiang Mai, where I am, is in the north and unaffected by that weather. Bangkok, from what I could tell, is also outside the affected area.

But if there is a problem and I get stranded in Thailand for a while, I may be able to find temporary work was a mahout.

When you get outside the city, this place looks less like New Hope, North Carolina, Indiana, or Upstate New York all the time. We rode out on one of the buses I told you about, a pickup truck with a cap. The passengers—sometimes monks—sit facing each other, like paratroops waiting to make the jump or maybe prisoners on their way to lockup. We had 10 people on our bus, so one member of the staff had to ride on the back. I mean that literally, standing outside on a platform at the back of the bus and holding on at 50 or 60 miles an hour. As I learn later, he is Mr. Paul and will lead the training session.

We stopped at a market on the way. Some people bought bananas and pineapples for the elephants. I bought bugs.

As I stood in front of the stand contemplating my selection, three American ladies came up to me and asked what these things were. I said fried insects. Are they good? I don't know. I'm going to eat them just to say I did. I bought one beetle about three inches long and about a half dozen grubs.

The lady at the stand wanted to sell me a small bag of grubs, but I demurred. It might be an acquired taste, and I didn't care to waste.

I gestured two, three. She handed me the spoon and I took six.

The Americans asked if they could take my picture while I ate the beetle. C'mon. I have the opportunity to show off in front of not one, not two, but three ladies, and I'm going to say no?

But I have a flashback (forgive me, Larry) to Houston and eating crawfish for the first time. How do you do it? The bug lady shows me. You tear off the four wings and the six legs and eat the rest. The meat is green, like some recipes of falafel or maybe pistachio filling for baclava.

After they all snapped their photos, one of the ladies asked, "Does it taste like chicken?"

No, it tastes like itself. And on later reflection, I’d say more like a vegetable than like a meat. It is an acquired taste, and if I worked at it, I might acquire it.

The grubs were nice—soft, and probably better with beer Chang, but since I was going to be driving an elephant, I wasn’t drinking beer yet.

Everybody back into the bus. Maybe it was the extra bananas and pineapples on board, but now one of the paying passengers is on the rear platform holding on next to the staff guy. There are places where you could probably be arrested for traveling like this.

The passenger outside, by the way, is a long, thin Brit who is teaching elementary school in Malaysia. As I learned later, he used to be a research scientist and now teaches children basic skills like clapping their hands in time. (I am not making this up: this is practically a direct quote.) At a later point in the trip, he mentioned that he had applied for a job in Antarctica. Never having been to Antarctica or having met anyone who has traveled there, I can only go by what I know from documentaries: if there are any children that far south, they are likely old enough that they can probably clap in time, so he must be looking for another research job.

Shortly after the market we start to climb. We move away from the highway into the hills. I've seen photos of banana trees, and maybe some of these trees grow bananas. There is a very graceful softwood, a pine perhaps, with very fine needles. There are trees with bright red flowers.

There are warning signs on the road with pictures of elephants and water buffalo. That's kind of different from deer, elk, moose, or alligators.

We passed a guy on a motor bike herding two water buffalo along the side of the road.

We come near the elephant farm and everybody has to get out of the bus. We have to walk across the bridge and follow a narrow trail to our destination, so the truck can proceed empty over this concrete bridge with a hole in the center. 

(This may have been done for effect, because on the way back the other bus carried a payload of nine passengers across the same bridge, although it did bottom out coming off.)

Today's picture was taken shortly after I arrived at the elephant camp. I had bought some sugar cane to feed to the animals, and the girl behind me could smell it. I had made a friend.

There were certain preliminaries. I had to change clothes. I had to take my shoes off. Since I don't wear flip-flops, I was going barefoot.

I may have signed a waiver that valued my life at 10 baht or maybe a little more, say 50 cents. We also had our pictures taken. This I assumed was for identification purposes, if an elephant stepped on our heads.

[Editor’s note: Harry fails to mention that he later discovered that the picture would appear on a diploma certifying that he had completed his half-day training as a mahout.]

They put us on benches under a roof and started to go through the “how to get onto an elephant” part of the program. One way is to grab the right ear with your right hand, grab some loose skin behind its front shoulder with your left, and then (after somebody who knows what to do gets the elephant to raise its foot) you use its leg as a set of stairs and then scramble the rest of the way onto its head.

You are supposed to sit far forward on the animal’s neck, with your knees behind its ears and your hands on its head. As far forward as possible, in fact, because, hell, you’re riding an elephant. What does falling and breaking your neck matter to you?

There’s another way to get onto an elephant. Again, you need somebody who knows how to get an elephant to do stuff. The elephant sort of bows down with its head near the ground. Some people (excluding Harry) can put their hands on the elephant’s head and vault onto it. Some people can more or less gracefully position themselves on the animal’s back, sit up, and turn around to face front. Some are less graceful and don’t seem to bend the right way.

I did manage it in two tries, and didn’t fall off. It is good to have lost all sense of shame.

Oh, it is getting late and I have to get up in the morning to fly back to Bangkok. I have also run out of beer so I have to beg off now, but will brag more later.

Love to all and to all a good night.

Harry

Elephants and Other Party Animals

Jan. 4

Picking up almost where I left off last time:

The getting on and off of an elephant is first demonstrated by a Thai who looks like he's made out of wire. His face and voice make me suspect he is Robin Williams's Thai cousin. 

He pops up the side. He flies over the forehead. He may have been born on an elephant. He weighs maybe 90 pounds, all of it gristle and green curry. 

Getting up onto an elephant by ear, so to speak, is much more my style than the leap-frog maneuver. First of all, I can do it in one try. I just have to watch where I put my feet relative to the elephant's in approaching her. The dismount in the ear-grabbing technique is more or less the reverse maneuver of the mount. 

This is a photo, taken by another member of the group, of me after my first time climbing up an elephant.

There is a punishment for using the alternative method of leap-frogging over the beast's head to get on. To get down, you have to lie on your back with your calves between her eyes and put your trust in God and gravity. When the elephant dips her head, you slide off and somebody else catches you. The wiry Thai, of course, doesn't need any help coming down, and because he can fly, too, he makes the descent look deceptively easy.

I had a catcher, but being very clever, I managed to elude capture. As I completed my fall to the ground, I clipped my spotter on the nose with my elbow. I decided my down-between-the-eyes days were over.

Some of the group were able to stand on the elephant's back. But I am not "some."

The elephants, we were told, were rescued from villages. One of the instructors said they can smell food from 3 or 4 kilometers away. I have observed that they are always hungry. 

There were 10 people in the group and two demonstration elephants. For each exercise, the elephants had to stand there to be mounted and dismounted by stumbling greenhorns five times each. Each of us was handed three pieces of sugar cane just before we dismounted. The trunk comes up back over the head and you hand it a piece of cane. It disappears and you can hear it crunch in the animal's mouth. "Yaa" (pronounced "yaa") means "no more fruit." That is also a good one to know when you're empty-handed staring an elephant in the trunk.

After those two exercises, the elephants took a breather in which they trumpeted water over their backs, peed a few gallons, and generally relaxed. 

Then, we learned how to use the mahout stick. You put your right hand on the elephant's head and, with the stick in your left, touch the point to her right ear, tap your foot gently behind the ear, and say "soi," and the elephant turns left because a guy on the ground is directing her. You reverse the procedure and say "khwa" while the guy turns you to the right. Hold the handle of the stick across the back of the animal's head and say "bai" to go forward. Maybe tap both ears with your feet, if you can do that without falling off.

Most important: Touch the point of the stick to the top of the elephant's forehead and say "yood" (rhymes with "good") to stop. I was pleased to find this maneuver can work without the influence of a professional on the ground. 

About halfway through this exercise, when some of the greenhorns were up, the elephants decided it was time for another break. The guys on the ground said no, and the elephants started trumpeting and insisting. By this time, the two elephants were probably so high on sugar that their attention span was shot. They might just have been very happy. With an elephant it's hard to tell.

Then we embark on the ride around the grounds. Two tourists to an elephant means five carry the group. But one is the mother of James Bond, a three-year-old bull calf that will stay tethered to his mother for another two years. So there is a total of six in the parade.

I got onto an elephant along with a Hollander who was traveling alone. (I don't think I mentioned: Larry was involved with visas and immigration in connection with his impending trip to Viet Nam, so I was on the tour by myself.)

Our elephant was friendly enough, but seemed hungry. But that's no big surprise because elephants are always hungry. Two of the elephants were high on sugar, but ours was not one of them. She would turn aside to stop and eat grass. I would say "soi" or "kwha" and tap her on the ear, probably the wrong ear. Or just do the "bai" maneuver. Sometimes she would go, but getting her to go more often needed intervention of one of the guys on the ground. A couple of times, I believe, she tried to shake us off, to get rid of the annoyance,

Then she saw something she just couldn't resist. In one step, the elephant overcame an embankment of maybe fifteen feet (or maybe a foot and a half, I'm not sure.). She moved faster than she had since I had gotten on her head, and she lumbered toward a narrow creek that must have been twenty feet deep. Well, at least two. For a moment there, I saw Harry going ass over head into the mud, camera, broken neck, and all. Even the Dutchman was scared. Then I remember yood. "Yood." Stick on the forehead. "Yood." No good. They rhyme, but that's all.

The beast stopped right on the edge of the precipice, which at this moment looked about a hundred feet deep. She was going for a fallen palm tree. She reached across the chasm and grabbed. She began ripping the leaves with her trunk and eating them. It took two guys on the ground to start backing her away, and clearly she did not want to go. 

I had a hand on the branch of a tree like that's going to help me. One of the guys gestured that that is not a good idea, so I reluctantly let go. My initial plan was to use a two-inch thick branch and my left arm to apply leverage against an elephant. Or at least hang on if the elephant plummeted from under me. Well, it seemed like a good idea when I grabbed on.

She wanted that palm tree, but was trained to obey, more or less. She backed away and dragged the entire tree with her. Leverage indeed.

Part of the track is a stream, so you can ride the elephants through water, just like Tarzan. We came to a dammed part of the stream and James Bond was first in. It was too much for him, he stopped and rolled in the water while the rest of us waited. It took a few minutes for the guys on the ground, and now in the water, to move him out of the way, Then the rest of us followed. 

This was where we got off the elephants. That was all right with me. After the episode of the palm tree at the edge of the cliff, I was fine with the idea of walking back to the starting point. So everybody got into the pool, which was full of floating elephant turds, and threw buckets of water over our mounts.

That lasted for a short while, with everybody throwing turd water at everybody else. I think a couple of mahouts may have started it by flirting with two Aussie girls in the group.

The water play was all right. That was their business, because I had gotten out after the first couple of splashes. Not because I was squeamish. I stayed long enough to throw a few handfuls of water on the elephant that had tried to kill me. But the water was god-damned cold.

I may have been barefoot in short-sleeved shirt and three-quarter length trousers, but it's winter here. That water comes down from the mountaintop. 

We rode the rest of the way back without serious incident. I handed the mahout stick to the Dutcher, whose name is Jasper, and let him take the lead.

After the ride, we got lunch—veggies in a mild, clear broth, green curry, and rice. It was after one in the afternoon and I had earned a beer Chang by then.

I also got a diploma certifying my passing the requirements of training. That is, I didn't fall off or take any bodily harm.

I don't know how my square moniker got onto this document. Maybe I had to show official ID to join the tour. Maybe it was required for the legal waiver in case an elephant stepped on me. I mentioned Mr. Paul earlier. (He's the passenger, remember, riding  outside of the bus.) Not sure, but Mr. Kaka may be the flying elephant master who is a near relation to Robin Williams. 

The elephant camp is a working farm, so one of the cool things about lunch was the animals. Cats and dogs seem to be highly regarded here, but they roam like strays. The dogs don't seem to do much more than lie around—on sidewalks, roads, aisles in markets, and under my chair. I was careful not to step on it, but it probably wouldn't have moved if I did. Correction: I saw a dog near the university in Chiang Mai chase a cat for perhaps a half-dozen steps.

The cats are a little more enterprising, by the way. A small tabby waited for a group to leave their table, then climbed up to clean the dishes.

The piglets roam around under tables in the hope that something will fall from above. Every once in a while you hear a squeal when somebody steps on one. 

I saw rice paddies for the first time. There were a couple of small fields at the elephant farm.

Five of our group went onward and, I guess, upward to go whitewater rafting. Motorbike yesterday, killer elephant today, I've had enough novel transportation experience so I'm on the bus for the half-day trippers. Two Brits, two Aussie girls, and I are in the bus and are joined by four ladies from another group. They are all Americans, and all but one teach school in Cairo. The other is a journalist in Washington, D.C.

This is one of the cool things that happens among travelers. Everybody is chatting about stuff with everybody else. One of the Australians mentions that she has plans to go to Cairo in February. One of the teachers gives her a card and offers her a place to stay. The Aussie lives in London and does strange things like riding elephants from time to time. Her mom worries. The teacher tells her, now you can tell your mother that you have people in Cairo.

The ride home in the truck passed jungle and humble homes with satellite TV antennas, farms with green fields, small market towns. And as I looked out on the rich flora, fauna, and culture of Asia, I realized that I could be at home here, if fate had worked it out that way. Even now, I could adapt. 

I can always look for temp work here wrangling elephants. As long as I have the backup of a couple of guys on the ground.

It was a great day in Asia.

Harry

Postscript: That night we met a friend of Larry's called Gerry. Harry, Larry, and Gerry went to a Chinese-Thai restaurant and ate a carp-like fish, and some kind of green vegetable that Larry calls water spinach. Gerry has lived in Taiwan and other places in Asia for decades, but somehow he looks familiar. Then I realize he has an uncanny resemblance to Robert Kennedy. He also talks with an accent, which I first thought was English. Then maybe Irish.

So I had to ask. He's from Winnipeg. After that, I start to pick up the tight vowels that you hear in the U.S. Upper Midwest and in Southern Canada. 

Winnipeg also explains why he fled to the tropics.

Joanna

Jan. 3

WOW! HH,

What a cool photo! I am turning green with envy, I want to climb on an elephant too.

You even ate insects. I am so proud of you.

I had eaten beetles in Hong Kong. I did not care for it then.

See you soon, Mr. Fun.

Peter

Jan. 4

This was particularly fascinating. Glad you're enjoying yourself so much. Going to the office will be so prosaic after this trip.

Harry H

Jan. 5

Larry tells me that after it all sifts out, I may have to retire so I can come live here like the other farang.