Steadily the train moves northward along clacking tracks. The thirty minute delay has cost us the sunset view while leaving Bangkok; disappointed, we settle for gazing out on silhouettes of corrugated-tin shanties gleaming gold here and there with the shine of lamplight; past the shanties, the bustling streets move with traffic, and periodically we pass markets of smoking food vendors; and after a while Bangkok’s towering skyline recedes, leaving naught but dark concrete towns and train stops to gaze down upon. It takes little time to discern that the famed night train between Bangkok and Chiang Mai caters mostly to the Western crowd: pasty travelers on vacation to see the two most well known cities in Thailand. Rail Caucasia we call it. K.C. and I sit across from each other, sticky and reeking, hair matted and salty, a deck of cards between us. Immediately across from us is an American couple keen on rock-climbing; they are friendly and we speak with them most of the evening, talking about travel plans and swapping stories. A Dutch family with young children occupies the seats near us and they speak with us also; their kids are funny and remarkably well behaved. Beyond them, a group of American backpackers carry on loudly with their game of hearts and play Slightly Stoopid songs on a small speaker they carry with them. I have no desire to engage them. Anyone who has traveled knows the conceit that flares whenever you come across tourists you disdain. The loud, the rude, the drunk, the ignorant, the impatient; the obnoxious tourist takes many forms. And it's damned hard not to resent them, to distance yourself from them, and to assure yourself that you are better than the loud-mouthed gaping trolls that happen to look a lot like you. It's a real struggle for me at least. After just two weeks of living in a purely Thai town, it felt unnerving to be suddenly surrounded by other foreigners. As K.C. and I had familiarized ourselves with Chachoengsao, a city of 60,000 with a native-English speaking population of maybe two hundred, we had come to accept the peculiar looks and the giggling, murmurous chatter that inevitably burst from every group of young Thais we happened to walk past. The only word we could readily pick up on was, ‘falang,’ foreigner. That takes some getting used to; to know that in public we were always the center of attention. Yet it also gives us a sense of credibility once the chatter began to subside. The second-class train is not broken into individual compartments. Instead, the seats fold and flip into bunks all down the line. The entire train car transforms into a communal bunkhouse come 8:30pm. Some of these long haul overnight trains are infamous for being practically refrigerated, they get so cold, but ours was fortunately not one of them. With the beds flipped down, there’s little to do besides climb into them and wait to be rocked to sleep. I draw the bed curtain. Laying in the semi-dark, I try to jot notes about the trip into my journal. It’s not long before I give up the effort. My eyes close. The wake up call comes early, around 5:00 or 5:30am. We’re an hour outside of Chiang Mai. Thai porters move through the car rousing us from our bunks. “Time to wake up!” they shout politely, “coffee, coffee?” “No khrap,” I say. The coffee they bring is an instant coffee, condensed milk, and grain sugar swill served piping in a little paper cup. Better to make do without until we reach a coffee shop in town. Bunk curtains swish open and bodies thump off the beds. I draw the window curtain to the side and catch my first glimpse of the north. Bangkok’s sprawl has disappeared in the night and given way to lush vegetation that covers the craggy hills. Swaddling fog wraps around the ranks of rocky green mounds; it fills the valleys that briefly open up, then close; it wafts and dissipates into the brightening pre-dawn sky. Already the area feels cleaner that the south. There’s less dirt, less dust, and less trash. Back in the train car, the scene is one of bleary-eyed confusion. People shuffle to brush their teeth, pack their belongings, snap their beds into seats, and wait tiredly for the train to reach Chiang Mai. I feel the grime of twenty-four sweating showerless hours. I close my eyes and think of soap, warm water, and coffee. Chiang Mai (New City) enjoys a much longer history than its name suggests. Since it’s founding in 1296 A.D. the city has remained the cultural, political, and economic capital of Thailand’s northern Lanna region. Relative to Bangkok, however, this city of 170,000 feels quaint. The mile long ride into the heart of town brings us rumbling past lines of dusty auto shops, hardware stores, 7-11’s, and Thai restaurants. We cross the bridge spanning the Ping River and the faces of the storefronts lift, showing off racks of jewelry, antiques and souvenirs, the ritzy interiors of hotel restaurants. The streets are all but empty at 7:00 in the morning. Only a handful of early morning commuters and the first of the songthaews, red truck taxis, have begun making rounds. Cool bracing air washes the sweat and grime from my face. My eyes open to the city as we meet the Thai Pei city gate and turn past it to enter the city center. This segment, and the entire chronicle is dedicated to my grandfather, the original Hewlette Collier Connell, MD (August 16, 1932 - January 7, 2017). I pray that his intelligence, his straightforwardness, and his wit lives on in us who succeed him. Rest in peace. In loving memory, H. Collier Connell
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Tense and slow the ride began. The deep-seated apprehension gripping me must have matched the feeling that a minnow experiences when it first leaves the verdant shelter of an algae bloom and swims into open waters. That cozy green quarter of Bangkok had, in an hour and a half, become my safe space away from the potential dangers of the road. It all melted away in an instant. Neighborhood alleys gave way to neighborhood thoroughfares and so on, each subsequent avenue streaming into the pulsing arteries of the city. We were headed for the heart; two precarious vessels bound to enter the wild mix of motorists. Senses fine-tuned in an instant. Fingers flexed and unflexed against the left-hand shifter in tandem with the right hand’s throttling and unthrottling. The bike responded accordingly, moving between cars and toward Hua Lamphong. Thais are not a careful driving people, generally speaking, but they are very alert on the road. The prevalence of motorbikes and scooters also makes the average driver much more aware of two wheeled vehicles. Unlike driving in the US or UK where motorcyclists are scorned, Thais respect the two-wheeled commuter. When everyone on the road has either ridden or owns their own bike or moped the appreciation for bikers naturally increases. So when my motorcycle stalled twice in the standstill there was no thundering of horns or angry shouts. Certain drivers even go so far as to adjust their cars to make more room for bikers passing through the deadlock. That understanding doesn’t necessary make up for the general disregard for traffic rules or the poor quality of infrastructure suffered throughout much of the country, however. Roads routinely get paved unevenly, leaving treacherous lips that can easily down unsuspecting drivers; potholes pervade many roadways, and dirt and gravel are regularly strewn over patches of asphalt. Fortunately, the money that runs through Bangkok tends to keep their streets better paved and maintained than many places. Another factor at play in the city (and on all major expressways throughout the country) is the prohibition of all motorbikes. Whether you ride a 1200cc street bike or a sputtering little scooter you cannot take the expressway. Those are reserved strictly for cars and trucks. Bikers must take the frontage roads – streets that run parallel to the expressways and typically run a bit more slowly. These are also open to cars. For the inexperienced biker, that’s not such a bad thing: stay out of the way of the most aggressive traffic and still get to where you need to go. The challenge for two people unfamiliar with the frontage roads was managing to follow them correctly as the Google maps voice issued unclear commands with only seconds to spare. Our arrival at Hua Lamphong proved nothing short of a kiss-the-earth moment. Waves of adrenaline washed over me, slowly ebbing as my feet paced the area outside of the train station. Laughter issued from K.C. and me; the mood was victorious. The first, and in my mind the greatest hurdle had been overcome. If we could navigate the insanity of Bangkok and not go down in a wreck of steel and concrete, then hell, we could navigate anything. There were still things to take care of though. First, we needed to pick up our tickets that were being held across the street with a third party provider. That was easily done. Next we had to see that our bikes were loaded onto the train’s cargo. It cost approximately 1,200 Thai Baht (THB) per bike, or roughly thirty-five dollars to load. Our research also told us that it was wise to grease the palms of the loading-dock workers to make sure the bikes were loaded carefully. We each passed the fellow taking care of us 100 baht and rested easy knowing the bikes were cared for. Hua Lamphong rail station is a beautiful, if somewhat dated structure. The faded gold and white façade feels bizarrely European for Bangkok. A pair of squat structures set with Doric columns and block modillions flank the hangar-like station whose stain-glass paned face sits behind the covered, columned terrace linking the pair of gold-white blocks.
Mario Tamagno, an Italian-born architect, fashioned the station in Neo-Renaissance style, which was popular at the time of construction in 1916. European airs dissipate quickly upon entering the gritty, rustic atmosphere, however. Barking cabbies throng about the main entrance to hail bewildered tourists emerging from the platform. Scores of loiterers shamble through the open terrace or lay around the steps or with their backs to the walls and columns. Car exhaust swirls through the outer terrace, mixing with the sweat of thousands of bodies and the oily odor of pork satay, grilled skewers, sizzling over charcoal. The air is heavy with more than heat, humidity, and the reek of steaming bodies; the weight of one hundred years of people in motion saturates the warm terminal. Natural sunlight seeps through the windows above the seating area where hundreds wait in purple chairs for their train to arrive. Orange robed monks old and young congregate on wooden benches in their designated area in the front right of the hall, under the proud guise of King Rama V, the man who staved off European imperial powers and preserved Siam’s sovereignty. Along the upper balcony, jutting out from the wrought iron railing, the Thai Royal Family’s flags hang alongside the country’s colors. Above that, running around the entire building are bright mural collages of Thai images: elephants, jungles, temples, and Buddha depictions. These scenes are easily overlooked as most travelers keep to their phones or their companions and the departure screen. Food vendors, coffee shops, a Thai food court, and even a convenience store ring the seating area and cater to the thousands that patiently wait. Everywhere there are bodies, sitting, shuffling, laying, standing. Only when a body moves through to the platform, underneath King Rama V does one find a relative pocket of tranquility and empty space. The terminal platform stretches out from the dim cover to the brightness of the outdoor afternoon. A few travelers mill up and down the aisles and a single custodian makes her rounds back and forth with her mop. The trains belong to another era; old burgundy carriages striped with mustard yellow bands, which appear oddly quaint and nostalgic, especially in Bangkok. They run well enough, if slowly. We finally boarded the number five train, Bangkok to Chiang Mai, which departed at 18:10. Thirty minutes after she was due to roll out of Bangkok, the train’s wheels grinded into action and we churned out of the capital city. Oh says Red Molly to James, “That’s a fine motorbike. A girl could feel special on any such like.” – Richard Thompson, “Vincent Black Lightning 1952” There’s nothing worse than riding bitch. You don’t need to ride a motorbike or even watch Sons of Anarchy or Easy Rider to appreciate that fact either. On its face, it just sucks ~ riding bitch ~ You cede control to the driver’s competence and the whim of every other driver and stray dog on the street. Your legs are bent and cocked beneath you; the balls of your feet press down on slender pegs. It’s almost a sprinter’s starting stance, only your feet aren’t staggered and you’re sitting upright. When the engine roars to life every muscle major and micro tenses; knees grip the shaking frame, knuckles whiten around the backhand grip, the torso tightens to protect vital organs, and the eyes strain to anticipate the intentions of every driver on the road, including the one between your legs. It just sucks. The full impact is felt most intensely when two grown men climb onto a bike and ride off together, each trying to give the other enough space on the seat.
Not even the rain that struck us half way to Nonthaburi could diminish them, or the traffic that we hit and were forced to weave slowly through. When we arrived my ass ached, my left shoulder felt as if it had suffered serious trauma, and my knees and ankles panged agonizingly, but I was one major step closer to securing wheels. There was still one more day we needed to spend canvassing the whole of Bangkok to obtain necessary legal documents and affidavits to push forward the immigration process, but that was of little consequence. The day after that I met the bike seller. He was a twenty-five year old software developer living in the heart of Bangkok in his parent’s apartment building, who wanted to sell off his 2015 Benelli TNT25 to help pay for the Triumph 675 Street Triple RX he’d just bought. K.C. who had the knowledge and experience that I needed was nowhere to be seen. As I was inspecting a vehicle that I was woefully ignorant of, he was blindly navigating the fifteenth-largest city in the world, trying to find my location. He wouldn’t show up until the negotiations were all but over and I had already committed to paying my original (but not terribly ambitious) counteroffer. When he did finally arrive I let him inspect the bike. She passed. I put the money down.
Still, I tried to enjoy my mocha frappe. It took only half of that frappe to realize I was ready to be sick. Within my chest the great muscly engine was threatening arrest, as if to warn the guy upstairs to reconsider this venture that put them both at risk. Meanwhile, my fidgety hands groped at nothing. The clamminess that had overtaken them made it unpleasant to hold anything, particularly the sugary, caffeinated shake that sweated for me on the table. “I’m done,” I said and stood, hurling the drink into the bin. “Give me a second and we’ll go.”
The TEFL course had long since ended. I’d clocked a month of beach time in Koh Samui and killed another two weeks settling into a new town, Chachoengsao: a provincial seat just outside of Bangkok filled with lively cafes, bars, and atmosphere. Yet for all that, the travel itch had set in again. The mid-year break for Thai schools was starting up, which meant three weeks to roam, even for us teachers who had yet to work a day. What to do with that time? Cambodia attracted some attention. The prospect of seeing Angkor Wat, the largest temple complex in the world, coupled with strange, late nights in Siem Riep promised to hold my interest for a few days, after which K.C. Feeley and I could meet his scuba instructor friend Greg down on one of the islands. Laos, with its pristine mountains and flowing rivers beckoned as well. A boat trip down the Mekong with plenty of stops along the way for treks and excursions would make for a quintessential SE Asian vacation. Vietnam excited us too; to stake out a few nights in Hanoi then move onto Ho Chi Min City and check out the Cu Chi tunnels would make for the trip of a lifetime. Or, we could take a trip we’d spent the past six weeks talking about: the Mae Hong Son motorcycle loop throughout northern Thailand. Once considered there was no other option. The Mae Hong Son loop runs a 600km (~375mi) circuit through the remote northwestern, eponymous province, Mae Hong Son. It begins in Chiang Mai, the largest, and most culturally significant city in the north of Thailand. The “New City,” famous for its fortified center, has enjoyed prominence in the region for more than 700 years and remains the capital of Chiang Mai province, which shares a border with Mae Hong Son. From Chiang Mai, the road typically leads straight to the much smaller town of Pai, a lively little settlement that has recently emerged as an outpost for hippies less content to remain within Chiang Mai’s bustling confines. However, an 88km detour dead north takes travellers with an extra day or two up to the beautiful town of Chiang Dao. We chose to make the drive to this oft overlooked spot and experience a few day’s quiet to visit the magnificent caves and temples tucked among the mountains.
This district contains the most mountainous, least accessible, and therefore least disturbed swaths of Thai culture and countryside in the whole nation. Hemmed in by rippling green chains of mountains, Mae Hong Son enjoys unheard of insulation from exterior forces, and the mysteries and superstitions inherent in the culture rise up like the mists that shroud the verdant landscape throughout the year. Indigenous hill tribes stick to their traditions here, inhabiting the lush valleys and secluded hollows. It’s the type of area that inspires magical realism – tales of impressionable wanderers stumbling across villages lost to time; of Buddhist monks with mischievous wit and wisdom, spiritual elephants, and the like, appearing out of nowhere, only to fade into the fog without hope of finding them again. At least that’s how my expectations ran.
But expectations rarely match reality. KC and I would pass through villages as we rode, but the people still used cell phones, and True TV dishes still stuck up from corrugated tin roofs. My most notable interaction with a monk wouldn’t be within the confines of an incense filled temple, chanting and purging my mind for enlightenment, but on the street discussing my level of interest in Thai women. And despite getting to spend an afternoon with a pair of pregnant elephants, neither would impress me as having divine properties. Nevertheless, the sense of grand, numinous elements waiting just around each bend or just behind the densely jungled screen attended the entire journey. And so we set off, the pair of us overladen with packs, riding Italian street bikes on one of the top ten greatest and most technical motorcycle loops in the world. It would be my first bike tour, and a real test considering I’d never sat a motorcycle three weeks before embarking. Our research had given us some sense of direction, the presence of friends in certain areas had given us something of a timeframe, but mostly our plans were as hazy as mornings in the mountains. What follows is the account of two weeks on the road. Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life delivers exactly what its title would have you expect: a pulsing, gritty account of a young man’s obsession and his relentless pursuit of the perfect wave. Most often it is a bumping, bruising ride that weathers the ebb and flow of relationships, unkind living conditions, and even less kind waves. Yet Finnegan’s writing remains so glassy smooth, and his descriptions of waves and water so fluid, that the reader emerges from the proverbial tube gliding and mostly dry. The book begins with William Finnegan’s childhood, growing up between California and Hawaii in the 1960’s, where he found his surf footing on a long board. He recounts these formative years with a journalist’s investigative eye, recalling fistfights with schoolmates, adolescent race relations at his Honolulu public school, and most significantly, his friendships with local Hawaiian surfers that shape his experience. He also delves into his family life (or rather his removal from it to surf), family history, and the history and culture of surfing. Through this lens, the reader gains access to a passion, a lifestyle, surfing, not readily observed in its deepest modes; not only that, readers are presented with the context, whether it’s personal anecdotes or commentary on the social upheavals of the 1960’s, that helps to explain what inspired and molded the man who wrote the book. Finnegan remembers his first encounter with surfers: “. . .I could see surfers out at a spot known as California Street. They were silhouettes backlit by low sun, and they danced silently through the glare, their boards like big, dark blades slashing and gliding, swift beneath their feet… I wanted to be out there, learning to dance on water.” The prose reads remarkably easy; Finnegan’s language stays straightforward and compelling, even when he employs the necessary surfer’s jargon to detail characteristics of different breaks and different surfers. He’s got a million ways for describing waves and water, each more convincing and distinctive than the last. Fellow NYC surfer and writer Thad Ziolkowski wrote in the New York Times Sunday Book Review that, “there are too many breathtaking, original things in Barbarian Days…observations about surfing that have simply never been made before, or certainly never so well.” Despite the high praise and focus dedicated to Finnegan’s descriptions of surf, it’s a mistake to believe that oceanographic characterizations and surfing alone make up the heart and soul of his memoir. Rather, the sea and surfing acts as a sinuous kind of connective tissue, readily traceable throughout the whole book, but not the primary method of propulsion. That comes from a separate, albeit related source: an unnerving desire to seek and to find something, though that something might be as ephemeral as a breaking wave. When awarding the Pulitzer prize to Barbarian Days, the Pulitzer board had this to say of the book: “Barbarian Days is an old-school adventure story, an intellectual autobiography, a social history, a literary road movie, and an extraordinary exploration of the gradual mastering of an exacting, little understood art.” That “old-school adventure… literary road movie” aspect of the book hits on the underlying urges that send Finnegan into the uncharted parts of the South Pacific, Asia, Australia, and eventually South Africa. Endless Summer meets Into the Wild. It’s a journey that explores whole stretches of continents, as well as the high and low tides of relationships: the balance between the need to surf and the need to maintain a relationship with a woman; the rough solidarity of close male friendships forged on the road and in the water; and the immutable family bonds that stretch beyond space and time. The combination of contemplation and raw adventure keeps the adrenaline coursing at the same time the reader thinks on the absurdity of some situations. But it’s Finnegan’s modesty and self-deprecating tendencies that lend so much credibility to his work. He writes: “There was the self-disgust, which we each wrestled with differently. Being rich white Americans in dirt poor places where many people, especially the young, yearned openly for the life, the comforts, the very opportunities that we, at least for a seemingly endless moment, had turned our backs on, well, it would simply never be okay. In an inescapable way, we sucked, and we knew it, and humility was called for.” That’s the confession of a conscientious rambler. Many would-be travelers could benefit from that kind of introspection. Mid-twenties Finnegan preoccupies himself with the people, customs, and social politics that he encounters in a way that prefigures his journalistic career; the situations and people provide the kindling, and his questioning of his place and purpose among them provides the spark. As he travels with friend and fellow writer, Bryan Di Salvatore, the writer in Finnegan emerges as he journals and considers the lifestyles and culture of Samoan fisherman, elements of the Indonesian black market, and the realities of apartheid.
Barbarian Days opens itself up to any reader interested in getting sucked into a smooth bit of prose and riding it quickly to the end. It doesn’t limit itself to surf enthusiasts; it almost invites the uninitiated to look inside and catch a faceful of spray. For a taste of Finnegan’s writing, check out Playing Doc’s Games, the New Yorker article he wrote that essentially sparked the rest of the book. http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1992/08/24/playing-docs-games-part-one A good traveler has no fixed plans And is not intent upon arriving. (Tao Te Ching: 27) Sunset in San Sebastian, my friend Ali and I sit on the sea wall overlooking la playa de Zurriola, the surfing beach. The throngs of tourists and sun-seeking beachgoers have retired to shower and rest before eating their late Spanish dinners, leaving only the committed surfers and a smattering of people to watch while night creeps in. Rain falls to the west, behind Castillo de La Mota, and covers the squat green seaside mountains with grey clouds. Ali and I are happy that the rain has decided to fall over there; we're happy with the three-euro bottle of wine we bought, which we decided to drink without glasses; and we're happy to be sitting on a beach in northern Spain in August with nothing better to do. At this point, I had backpacked alone for four weeks, after a three-week stint as a teacher’s assistant in Oxford, England with my friend and former teacher, Ben Hale, and a group of Woodberry Forest boys. I had visited cities in seven countries, met scores of excellent, interesting people, and prided myself on staying away from the most touristy areas. My plans were outlined but flexible; my arrivals subject to change. In short, I believed I was a good traveler. Ali first crossed my path in Cinque Terre, Italy weeks earlier while hiking. She too felt the urge to roam. As we hiked we talked about our travels, future plans, interests, and our lives back in the States. We both agreed that the time to travel was now, and that soon enough we would each be living and working somewhere abroad. Five hours and several mountainous miles later we parted ways. I suggested we reconvene in northern Spain where I had heard the hiking was good. Her follow through surprised me. Plenty of people take the European backpacking pilgrimage. Plenty return with a sense of reinvented self, or an exquisite taste of culture, or a hatful of stories about wild nights in strange places. Far fewer decide that they need more than their allotted month to explore. Not so with me. I realized very forcefully that I am not intent to arrive at the office in Raleigh or Charlotte or Atlanta just yet. The impulse to go out into the world stems from moments like the one in San Sebastian – the magnetism of friendships made and held, however briefly; exposure to different places, cultures, peoples; and escape from routines. Traveling alone played a huge role as well, I’m convinced. That said, this trip is by no means what William Finnegan, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Barbarian Days, refers to as a “hopelessly New Age wish” to “learn new ways to be” by experiencing completely different people and cultures. Rather, it’s an opportunity for me to experience a different occupation in a different setting. I get to teach, and in teaching hopefully be taught a thing or two. I get to travel too. The journey begins on the island of Koh Samui. Koh Samui sits just off the east coast of mainland Thailand, Surat Thani Province, in the Gulf of Thailand. It is one of the largest islands in the Gulf and the second largest of all Thai islands after Phuket on the west coast. Pristine white sand beaches, vibrant coral reefs, and luxury resorts make Samui a popular tourist destination. Despite considerable development around the coastline, apparently the interior remains mostly undisturbed natural tropical jungle. I'll spend my first month here, getting oriented with Thai culture and language, while taking courses to become certified as a teacher through a TEFL/TESOL program (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). Nineteen fellow students join me on the program; they hail from Europe, Australia, across the US, Canada, and South Africa, among other places. My hope for this blog is to let myself become a lens through which friends, family, and followers may catch a glimpse of the Thai experience. It should read more like an online magazine than a personal diary. My promise, after this first submission, is to remove as much ‘I’ from the agenda as possible and instead put the reader in a position to see the sights, whiff the smells, hear the clamor, taste the spice, and touch the fabric of life that I’ll be enjoying. With luck, these observations, entries, and reviews will keep you entertained, interested, and engaged. Thanks for reading, -Collier |
Collier ConnellA traveler gone to teach English in Thailand who is far less interested in himself than the fascinating people, places, and things I'm ready to encounter. Archives
December 2016
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