The Backpacker Capital: Escape

[indiekid]

The Backpacker Capital: Escape

By indiekid

The White Temple, in all its holy strangeness.

Editor's note: this is the second part of a two-part article. You can read part one here, and find Exilian's general travel writing index here.

Northern Thailand is home to a number of different ethnic groups collectively known, to the outside world, as "hill tribes". They are distinct from other Thai peoples and largely disadvantaged as a result. They have historically lived in the mountainous borderlands of Thailand and its neighbours, though some have emigrated from as far afield as China. They number about one million in total and, though very diverse, have a few features in common: a semi-nomadic lifestyle; distinctive building techniques and a history of persecution and flight. The Yao people, for example, are native to Vietnam and southern China and were displaced during the Vietnam War (I'll spare you my rant about that). They are known to tourists for their long hair and colourful outfits. It was among these hill tribes that my hypothetical gap year back in 2011 would have taken place, and my base would have been the city of Chiang Rai – my base of operations for this, the second part of my tour of the North.

I stepped off the bus, looked around and breathed a sigh of relief: everything was refreshingly normal. After the strangeness of Chiang Mai and Pai it was nice to walk along a pavement towards a roundabout. This roundabout housed the centrepiece of the city: an elaborate golden clock. Around it I found a number of streets containing tea shops and jewellers - two of the city's specialties - but no hostel. By the time I found one I was hot and tired; I practically fell through the door into the small communal sitting and dining room. There was no one about, but my noisy entry had attracted attention. A door opened and Mekhala, the owner, appeared and, though a little surprised, asked me politely if I was a walk-in. I confirmed that I was and, in the course of our conversation, discovered that she had recently bought the hostel and moved in with her mother and young son. It was a neat and comfortable place and I settled down under the air conditioning to wait and see who else might be about.

It was not long before I made friends with two Swiss backpackers (they weren't travelling together - it was just good fortune) and we set out together to see Chiang Rai's famous sites. First up was the White Temple (Wat Rong Khun), a dazzling and over-the-top structure which was built upon a ruined 19th century temple at the end of the last century. It is the brainchild of the artist Chalermchai Kositpipat, who has put his own spin on Lanna architecture (see part 1) and is still adding to it. Although its layout is fairly typical, it has a number of controversial details. Sci-fi style statues stand guard outside and ghostly faces seem to screech out of the floor. Things get weirder as one approaches the inner sanctum, and this weirdness unfortunately detracts from the intricate and beautiful decorations. The interior walls - where no photographs are allowed - are covered in murals. These are no ordinary murals: the gods and goddesses are eclipsed by more modern characters. Superman is shown in the sky, along with an aeroplane. Spiderman and Black Panther are joined by other film and comic book characters. I found two skyscrapers to be suspiciously similar to the Twin Towers, and one had a black serpent, perhaps representing oil, coiled around it. Was the theory that even the likes of Disney would not dare sue a temple for copyright infringement? Was the overall message that religion trumps capitalism? The whole thing left a bad taste in the mouth.

A bench in the Blue Temple reserved for monks: whether this cat had been ordained was unclear.

Our next stop was another modern building: the Blue Temple, or Wat Rong Suea Ten. This one was beautiful without being edgy, and felt more like a genuine place of worship. We had a nice time sitting in the main chamber looking at the Buddha statue which, though large, was dwarfed by the two enormous blue gods at the main entrance. We then took our final taxi (Grab is the app of choice) to the Black House (Baan Dam) Museum. This is an art gallery mostly exhibiting works by its founder, Thawan Duchanee. These include fascinating (quasi) religious paintings; human sculptures with oversized penises and much more besides. The highlight for me, however, was the architecture: the museum is spread over dozens of buildings in a shady garden. No two buildings are alike, and traditional wooden building techniques are displayed with a modern twist. It was an excellent way to round off the day.

My first solo trip out of Chiang Rai was to Chiang Saen, a small town about 60 kilometres further north. Due to its strategic location it was involved in the wars with the Burmese Empire, and was occupied by them from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. As a result it is home to some very atmospheric ruins, and there's a nice market as well. I enjoyed walking around the temples, which are interspersed with the modern town, and encountered very few tourists. They were all of a beautiful reddish stone and some were quite overgrown. Sunlight trickled through the leafy canopy overhead and picked out worn, smiling faces in the architecture. From the temples I moved on to the imposing city walls. I remember these being very "curvy", at the gateway at least, and the main road curved with them. I noticed drivers sounding their horns as they passed the temple there. I was sure this was a religious, or at least good-luck, tradition. I was reminded of the bus driver I'd met some months before, high up in the Andes. Whenever we passed a shrine to the Virgin Mary he would take his hands off the wheel and cross himself. This was not reassuring because the shrines were usually located immediately before terrifying hairpin bends.

Nature reclaiming the sacred in Chiang Saen.

My next day trip began in the city of Mae Sai, which sits on a tributary of the Ruak river. This river is the border between Thailand and Myanmar, so the city is popular with backpackers doing "visa-runs". I didn't find much to see there except the big gated bridge which leads into Myanmar. From the platform beside the bridge I had a good view of the flags on the far side - I was, in that moment, the most northerly backpacker in Thailand. This was not, however, the most exciting national border to see. About 30 kilometres to the east, the mighty Mekong river (the seventh largest in Asia) forms first the border between Myanmar and Laos and then, downstream, the border between Thailand and Laos. The Ruak flows into the Mekong and their confluence is the point the three countries meet. The area is known as the Golden Triangle, thanks to its historic connection to the opium trade. I'll spare you most of my rant about that too, but will mention it includes a sarcastic use of the phrase "Rule Britannia".

It was an easy songthaew ride to the viewpoint where the sluggish brown rivers came together. A few long, thin boats plied the Mekong and a steady stream of (mostly Thai) tourists came off the main road to take photos. The contrasts between the three countries could not have been more striking. The Myanmar side was a pristine forest, broken only by a mansion-like building in the distance. I was standing in a gaudy and – as it seemed to me – tacky temple dominated by an enormous gold Buddha riding in a boat. On the Laos side, meanwhile, some glass-and-concrete skyscrapers were shooting up towards the sky. They were being built so quickly that a literal dust cloud was rising from them and blowing over the other two countries - the intended message was clear. I suspected, since Laos is such a poor country, that this display of dominance might have been bankrolled by China. When I'd had my fill of the temple, and its "loo with a view", I attempted to hitchhike towards Chiang Saen. I was moderately successful in that a car did stop, but it turned out to be a taxi. Although it wasn't quite the ride I'd expected it was still enjoyable, especially when the driver turned on my seat's massage feature (though, to be fair, this was not quite the Thai massage experience I had considered pursuing). From Chiang Saen I caught a bus back to Chiang Rai, but it's worth noting that my adventures on the Mekong were far from over: I would later rendezvous with it in its massive delta region, in Vietnam.

The boat of the Buddha: Phra Chiang Saen Si Phaendin temple.

In between my days out I enjoyed hanging out in Chiang Rai. I visited temples, where I looked around small museums and watched groups of orange-clad novices playing in gardens. I went to a craft fair in an old house with a connection to the royal family of Siam. I walked along the riverbank in a cloud of dragonflies. One evening I decided to take a detour to see the city's only mosque - a small but attractive building. Someone else was doing the same thing, and he recognised me: it was Kieren, my Irish friend from my hostel in Pai! We had a catch-up over some street food, then visited an Irish bar. "Hhmmmm," said Kieren as he looked around, "Not dark and smoky enough."

I was delighted to be ticking so many good experiences off my Bingo card, and soon realised I could even cross off "Homestay". For those who don't know, homestays are an accommodation option where travellers stay with a local family in their home and usually have meals provided. It's a relaxed, intimate and relatively expensive accommodation option, one my budget doesn't usually allow. So it's a credit to Mekhala and her family that this was the environment I found in the hostel. One wet evening a number of delicious-looking plates of food started appearing on the table, and the small number of guests were soon invited to join the family for dinner. "There's nothing like a bit of rain," I wrote in my diary, "To bring a group of backpackers together." It was not just backpackers who were benefiting, however: on another evening several of Mekhala's friends came over, bringing with them a heap of board games. It had been a while since I'd last given Azul a whirl, and I was pleased to finally have a go at Seven Wonders: Duel.

When the rain stopped, Mekhala took the whole lot of us out onto Chiang Rai's walking street. We looked at the different stalls and I tried every type of toasted insect in sight. We passed the park where some of the decorations for the city's annual Flower Festival (which I'd missed) are stored. Mekhala had recently told us that one of the advantages of her new home was its proximity to her son's school. Only now did she mention that it was also very close to her favourite bar, a few blocks from the walking street. So we wound up there with beers in our hands listening to some live music. The band was a young and cool four-piece; they mostly played punk numbers but also did a good cover of John Denver's Take Me Home, Country Roads. The set was perfectly smooth, precise and well-rehearsed, but a part of me wanted to gently shake someone and point out that these things do not a "punk band" make. I think this cynicism was motivated by fatigue; I had, perhaps, been down one too many country roads by this point.

I was becoming jealous of the long-term volunteers in the hostel, most of whom would get on with their digital nomad roles once the breakfast was cooked and the beds made. I knew, however, that I couldn't settle down: I had yet to achieve my most important objective. I hope I won't sound preachy - or hypocritical - when I say that I want this article to be about the ethics of backpacking. It's not just over-tourism that can be damaging: various tourist activities cause problems, and Brits like me are experts in this field. Smart tourism companies have recognised this concern and now market themselves as "ethical", which they use to justify higher prices for their services. The problem, of course, is that the claims can't be verified, especially by a lone backpacker out on the road. The contrast with, say, a decade ago is most striking in the case of elephant experiences. Companies which once promoted themselves with the phrase "feeding the elephants!" now screech "NO feeding the elephants!" for the same reason. Riding is especially frowned upon, but one man who worked in the industry shared his mixed feelings with me. Is it really so bad if a trained mahout rides the animal in a traditional and, as far as possible, kind way for the tourists' sake? He believed the new attitude threatened livelihoods. I didn't know what to make of it, but I knew the story could get a lot worse. Instead of going into it I'll provide you with a link to an article, by a Bangkok journalist, on Thailand's least ethical form of tourism below.

I needed to get out into the sticks and meet some members of the hill tribes. I wanted to do so in a way that was ethical and did not break the bank. I did not want to be seen as a big, dumb tourist with more money than sense. Something, clearly, had to give. I reasoned that my best chance of success might lie with the nearby Hill Tribe Museum, which was also the public-facing part of a large NGO dedicated to improving the lives of the local tribespeople. It was a great place to visit in its own right, the collection of traditional clothing being particularly fine. The receptionist was a little surprised when I asked about tours because it was low season. They advised a tour was possible but I would have to source other backpackers myself if I wanted to share the cost - I failed in this. It was more expensive than those offered by tour companies by about 50%, and backpacker logic dictated that I should really think twice. I considered it more likely to be ethical and genuine so decided to go ahead, though I wished I could have discussed it with the Elders. When the morning of my tour came I laced up my battered shoes, shouldered my day pack and prepared to go, quite literally, against the flow.

The shrine at the entrance to the Lahu village.

I stepped gingerly into the wooden boat, strong hands guiding me down. I plonked myself on one of the many benches and Goja, my guide, joined me. The boat was a ruea hang yao or "long-tailed boat", shaped like a canoe and with capacity for about twenty people. Our pilot started the engine and we set off up the Kok river. It was a relaxing ride with greenery all around; the landscape was mostly flat but with some dramatic lumpy hills here and there. Goja, a member of the Lahu tribe, was initially not very confident with his English, but was still able to point out the interesting agricultural and religious buildings we passed (his confidence grew during the day and he would later tell me about his own life in Chiang Rai state). As we rounded one bend two more ruea hang yaos came into view. Both were lying relatively low in the water, full as they were with ageing Western tourists. We waved to each other as we passed and I felt very aware of my beard, which was by now long enough to flap about in the breeze.

We pulled up at a covered wooden jetty with a sign reading "Meet the Big Snake!". I was practically bundled out of the boat by a group of smiling men and asked which of the two big snakes I would like to drape around my shoulders. I replied, without thinking, that the biggest of the two would be the most appropriate. One man offered to take my camera and, while he prepared to take my photo, the others uncoiled the snake. It was long and elegant with beautiful white scales - I seem to remember it was a python. I couldn't really appreciate the sight, however, because I was preoccupied by the very big snake's very small box. In a trice the heavy creature was around my shoulders and the photo taken: irrefutable evidence that I was a dumb, grinning tourist. I sighed inwardly and told myself that I had done everything possible in advance to make this an ethical adventure. It was time to let go and try to enjoy the ride. The snake, however, had other ideas: perhaps mistaking my lower leg for a branch it fastened itself tightly and refused to budge. This led to a lot of hopping on my part and tugging on the part of the men. This hilarious scene was not, unfortunately, caught on camera. After this a chatty man showed me his collection of coins.

With my cheeks reddening I followed Goja away from the jetty and up into the village. He informed me that the first objective of our tour had been achieved: I had just "met the Karen". The Karen are, by population, the largest of the hill tribes and are native to Myanmar; many in Thailand are refugees. This gave me pause for thought: the tour was about meeting people and seeing their day-to-day lives - if those lives involved keeping coins and pet snakes then who was I to complain? What had I been expecting, a song and dance? Whirling ceremonial clothes with no ceremony? I'm pleased to say that the day became less tourist-centred from this point onwards, largely thanks to Goja's skills and social interactions with the people we met. I was, however, still reeling a bit when we reached our second destination: an elephant corral. It was a nice place by the river and seeing elephants is, as you'd expect, nice, but I don't have much to say about it. I noticed the elephants' ears were very red in the heat. Goja explained that, while these elephants were taking their turn with the tourists, their families were living their best lives up in the hills. I chose to believe this was true.

Goja and I continued on foot, steering well clear of the pretend "village" where members of the Kayan tribe are forced to sell handicrafts and smile for the cameras. The money from these operations invariably lines the pockets of unscrupulous business owners, leading to the phenomenon being dubbed the "human zoo". We turned off the tarmac onto a peaceful track by a paddy field and I instantly relaxed. We climbed up a valley, passing fields of pineapples, cashew nuts, lemongrass and chilies; some had workers tending them. We started to get brilliant views. It was very hot and sunny – I had expected rain. We took shelter in a little hut used by the farmers and Goja told me about life in his village, which was a little further into the hills than the one we were aiming for. He faced a daily challenge in taking three children to two different schools in the morning using only one motorbike. How he met this challenge I'll leave to your imagination.

In further pursuit of shade we veered from the main path and Goja part-hacked a way through forest towards an agricultural clearing. As a result of this shortcut we approached the Lahu village from below, accentuating a dramatic architectural feature I had been looking forward to: stilts. I was to eat my lunch in a bamboo building with a corrugated iron roof on concrete stilts (concrete replaced wood when the government imposed permanence on these semi-nomadic slash-and-burn farmers). We climbed a flight of steps to a veranda covered by a brightly coloured mat. There I was met by my hostess and her two children. I did not ask to take photos of them – a rule I had imposed on myself – but did do so inside and outside the house. A table was unhooked from a wall and I sat cross-legged while it was piled high with soup, rice, chicken and papaya. It was a delicious meal and very welcome after the morning's exertions. Goja took out his knife and started chopping at some of the bamboo he had collected on the climb, chatting to our hostess as he did so. He chose a natural intersection between segments of bamboo and chopped until he had made me a drinking cup, scoring the outside as decoration. He asked me if I'd like to have a go at making one and I said something about valuing my fingers.

We said goodbye to the family and made our way through the village. There was only one road and the houses were laid out in a way that looked unplanned. This didn't really matter because there was space for all the village motorbikes among the stilts, next to the washing lines and hammocks. It was deathly quiet: everyone, apart from our host family, was out working the fields. At the top of the hill we passed a shrine, complete with brazier for burning offerings. Though all the hill tribes have adopted religions like Buddhism and Christianity, their traditional "animist" beliefs are still very much alive. These beliefs involve protecting the village from malign spirits of the forest, hence the shrine's positioning at its entrance. It served as a defence but, it is believed, defences like these sometimes fail (I'm talking in general terms – I'm not sure exactly where the Lahu sit on this). A woman conceiving twins is considered evidence of this failure and, though now rarely banished, she can still find herself ostracised by the community. I wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible to be simultaneously angry at and sympathetic towards another culture.

We had now reached a forest of teak. Teak is a sought-after hardwood because it grows incredibly slowly, so even the oldest trees looked very small to me. We had a very beautiful, though sometimes scratchy, trek up there. We passed a web strung between two trees where a huge spider (possibly a Giant Golden Orb-Weaver) was gobbling something up. I was hot and sweaty by the time we reached a waterfall. It was very picturesque and something about its speed and the long cutting it had eroded in the rock funnelled cool air towards me. I paddled, though Goja encouraged me to actually swim. We walked down a path to where the pilot from our morning boat ride was waiting, this time at the wheel of a four-by-four.

We drove to our final destination: an Akha village. I watched women in nice headwear shelling some very pink peanuts. I was shown into a house and chatted as much as was possible with the residents. There was an opportunity to buy handicrafts but no one was much bothered about this. I reasoned that this might be an advantage of doing the tour alone, with a guide who was no stranger to the community. As we made to leave I caused some excitement among the children playing in the street, many of whom were wearing t-shirts emblazoned with Disney characters. We drove back towards Chiang Rai, stopping to take photos whenever I wanted. I took a cheesy one with Goja and, at the end of the tour, shook hands with both men. I had enjoyed myself immensely: the day had been everything I wanted and, as you've seen, more. It was well worth the investment and the best outing of my trip, pushing even the Andean paragliding into second place.

On Sunday I went to church. It consisted of two church buildings: a little one, the city's oldest, and a very big one where the congregation actually gathered. A number of different people stood up to take different parts of the service, and there was a good choir. The person who worked hardest, however, was the translator. Though unseen, he kept up a constant stream of live translation through my earpiece during the spoken sections. He looked tired when I met him at the end and expressed my thanks. A husband and wife invited me back home for lunch, and I gladly accepted. I had a happy stroll in their garden, which was looked over by yet another giant white buddha. Taking pity on me for the holes in my t-shirt, my hosts gave me a new one. It carried corporate branding and was left over from some conference or other. I was touched by the gift, and moved by the whole experience, but the day was tinged with sadness: my adventures in the North were coming to an end.


Chiang Rai's airport terminal was not very interesting. It was all concrete and the waiting area was as generic as they come. I was there because of an uncanny turn of good fortune - the thirtieth or fortieth, if you're keeping count. Two friends from my past lives were in Thailand at that moment, and I was flying back to Bangkok to meet them. I was, nevertheless, feeling tired and grumpy, and already forming a mental picture of the utopia-dystopia which I would one day christen the Backpacker Capital. In my pocket my fingers closed on my latest souvenir. The church service, though very enjoyable, had one alarming feature: communion had consisted of individually-wrapped bread wafers and one-use plastic shot glasses for the wine. I had kept my shot glass out of protest because I, apparently, cared about the environment.

Here, then, was the rub: I had only been able to save this shot glass from landfill by flying from the UK to Thailand via a large number of countries. I had tried to compensate for the carbon-spewing nature of my trip by minimising internal flights, yet here I was, waiting for one. There were alternatives, but my time in Thailand was severely limited. This was due to a visa issue - the very thing that had aborted my planned trip to Thailand back in 2011. If the same world that had twice denied me a long visit to Thailand was expecting me to spend 24 hours rattling back to Bangkok on a night bus, it had another thing coming. I found the greed of this statement repulsive: the world did not owe me anything. Despite this, it had given me a tremendous amount, far more than it had given others. This is my intended take-away of this article – all of them, in fact. If you're reading this, you know that this world gives. It gives and it gives and it gives. One way we can share this is by putting pen to paper, as I've done here. Thank you for reading and thank you, Jubal, for editing (and for the conversations about the wildlife and culture).

Links

As promised, here is the article about unethical tourism: https://www.thaienquirer.com/52358/opinion-spare-a-thought-for-thai-sex-workers-during-pride/

I also feel compelled, on this occasion, to link to some of the organisations which made my trip so special. Here is the cooking school in Chiang Mai: https://www.asiascenic.com/

The hostel in Chiang Rai: https://www.facebook.com/people/Together-Backpackers-Hostel/100091812953854/

The Hill Tribe Museum: https://www.pdacr.org/general-information-2/

Editor's Recommendation: the Irish Pub song. As this piece proves, there really is one wherever you go in the world.