Rice Farming from My Window...

Its that time of year again.  The neighbors are hard at work, right outside my front door.  In a couple weeks time, the entire valley will be lush and green.  Just felt like sharing my morning view.

Mae Salong, Garden in the Sky ...

Environmentalist would surely cringe at the sight of denuded mountain tops.  The spectacle of temples, villages, farms and gardens perched precariously on the steep slopes is, however, a sight to behold.  Add to that the thrill of negotiating the serpentine roadways nestled snugly on the saddle of a motorbike.  The sights, sounds, smells and the occasional sensation of the back tire breaking loose as you over-break into a hairpin turn.  It all makes for a nice little day-trip.

A quick Google and you can read about those who settled this area and how the present day tea plantations and tourism replaced another profitable but illicit crop.  I simply want to share my view of a day-trip with a friend.  One of the many plusses of living in the Chiang Rai area.

These last two images are of a little place we passed on an isolated back road somewhere between home and Mae Salong.

The Joy of Mountain-Biking ...

On any other day I would be waxing lyrical about the virtues of mountain-biking on dirt roads and trails, over that of riding on asphalt and concrete.  Today as the ruts began to fill with water and the ridges between became slippery I started questioning my own arguments.

I awoke to a beautifully cool and overcast day.  Low, light colored clouds, silhouetted against a deep dark background.  One can never tell in this valley, which path the clouds will take.  Straight across the valley floor, hug the mountains or swing around and come from the opposite direction of the prevailing wind.  Though not an advocate of riding in the rain, on this day I was willing to take my chances.  It was still early so I liked my odds of getting home before it rained.  Plus, there was just a burning desire to go.

I almost forgot to mention that yesterday I took my bike in for a tuneup and had it fitted with a new saddle, better suited to my nether regions.  I have always ridden in my old squash and gym shorts but a pair of Trek bike shorts struck my fancy and the combination of the shorts and new saddle made an often bruised and tender part of my anatomy feel quite comfy in spite of all the rain and mud.  With Trek emblazoned on bike and ample thighs, I’m beginning to feel like a moving billboard.  I do draw the line at those multi colored bike shirts, however.

Today’s route I prefer to attack in a counter clockwise direction.  That gets the asphalt section out of the way first and makes for an easy warmup.  With hindsight, clockwise would have made for an easier ride on the day and I could have cleared the more difficult parts before they got wet.  That was not to be, however, and just as I left a new section of dirt road and started on the rough degrade path, the waterworks began.  Not in earnest or suddenly.  That gentle cooling drizzle that had me thinking, “This is not bad.”  Soon began a series of mood swings from heavy and violent, to sharp and piercing, to a percussive symphony of sound.  The roof of a farmer’s hut, forrest leaves, the road and even my hat, gave off their own distinctive sounds.

Between cloudbursts the skyline was beautiful but there was little chance to look up as attention was needed elsewhere.  Loose rocks and rain slicked ridges were accompanied by ruts, puddles, mushy sand, mud and sticky clay.  At times my tires threw off sand and small pebbles in a watery spray as I attempted to breath through my nose and not an open mouth.  Then came the section that reminded me of potter’s clay.  It clung to everything and on occasion took the liberty of shifting my gears for me.  Tires swelled to twice their normal size as they tried to cease my forward momentum.  Caked in clay my rear tire tended to fishtail on me as I tried to maneuver on the trail.  I longed for clean rubber on the trail but was showered and pelted by clumps of earth as my tires transfered their load of heavy clay, to me.  Silly of me to think that cleaner tires would not have the reverse effect on my body.

Rice fields are a busy place these days, as they replant from the seedbeds to the main fields.  Today’s weather was a welcome break from the recent heat and that all made for a lager crowd than usual, to find humor in my antics.  There was obvious comic relief in watching me peddle by, all covered in mud and rooster tail erupting from my back tire.  Their jovial taunting was just audible but under the circumstances I was unable to hear the actual words. 

Arriving home I was quite a sight and it took some work to get me and my bike presentable again.  In the end I had done my coffee, internet, bike ride, Skype call, lunch and it was barely noon.  I wonder what the rest of the day holds?  Perhaps a nap for my aging bones.

Storytelling, A Dog’s Tale and More...

So there I was knees in the breeze again.  Just me and the bike recharging our respective batteries.  Being a two wheeler one must point the thing and move, to keep from falling off, so I was pointed in the general direction of Chiang Kong.  When suddenly, or actually not so suddenly, there was a subtile drop in temperature, rise in humidity, that telltale aroma and the day’s haze turned into something a bit more wet.  Not being one for riding in the wet or on slick oily roads after a light rain, I turned tail and headed back toward dry surfaces and whence I came. 

After a quick mental sort through of the options, I settled on a new direction to point my phantom.  The mountain-front road that I headed down, takes one past a few farang looking houses.  One rather large one is easily visible from the roadside and I will stop and take a look at the progress on the infrequent occasions of my passing by.  On this day a worker notices my presence across the highway, waved and pointed at a shape on a large bench between the front pillars.  It turnout to be the farang owner, who in a big welcoming tone of voice, bid me come forth and introduce myself. 

We have been in our house, for a year and a half by now, but there remains a bond of empathy for those still in the process.  I got the tour and the backstory before being interrupted by my wife calling on the cellphone.  Seems some friends had turned up and it might be nice if I could get home in time to say hello.  I bade my host and new acquaintance fair well as I mounted my beast and headed home with an excuse to move a little faster than usual. 

So after a few unscripted plot changes, the story finds me back where I started and relating recent events to our guests.  The story that most caught the interest on my friend was about our dogs and he insisted that I relate the story to you.  Two of them have on occasion been known to sample the village chickens.  Certain things will kick their predatory urges into hyperdrive.  Namely anything that tries to flee and our walks to the dam, which for them takes on the duty and urgency of a hunt.  They checkout every small herd of cows just to see if they can get a rise.  They bolt down a small lane after a pack of seven noisy little dogs, pulling up just short of confrontation.  They brashly scent-mark the other’s turf, paw the ground and swagger off with a condescending, over the shoulder glance, as the squeaky little dogs express their disapproval.

Because of their boisterous nature and concern for our neighbors feelings, we have taken to muzzling King and Momo on these hikes.  Even with the muzzle they couldn’t resist the chase and lit out after a flock of chickens, free ranging up in the hills, the other day.  Being further up the trail I heard the commotion but was too far away to see with any clarity what occurred.  I heard the owner shouting obscenities and laying chase with something in his hand that I thought might be a slingshot, which he later denied.  I can only assume he thought my dogs were going to kick his chickens to death as they most certainly could not bite.  Upon returning home and removing the muzzle I noticed a large round hole in the middle of Momo’s forehead.  As the wound has begun to heal my wife says it looks ever so much like a third eye between the other two.  He is a tough old dog, however, and has previously survived poisoning, snakebite and days without food as he fought for his place line with the local vixen in heat.  As with all other misfortunes he seemed to take this new addition to his face in stride. 

The chicken man showed up later at the mother in law’s house yelling and shouting about our savage dogs.  When asked if they had injured his chickens he admitted they had not but reiterated that he would have shot them if he had a gun nearby.  Our closest neighbors get upset in the moment but while some refuse payment others will weigh the dead bird and we pay by the kilo.  I guess we were wrong in thinking the muzzles would appease everyone.  

No doubt one day King and Momo will end up on some hungry villager’s plate, but for now I can’t take Cookie to the dam unless the other dogs are off at the other house.  While Cookie cannot resist any puddle, ditch, pond, stream or reservoir she is in every other way a lady.  Still filled with youthful exuberance yet even tempered and loving.  Her only encounter of note with a chicken was a stroll from the maid’s house up our driveway.  Upon reaching the front yard there appeared a soaking wet baby chick that quickly scampered off no worse for ware.  Sensing our displeasure at using the little bird to suck on, she has never done that again.

Anniversary Thoughts...

I often speak of control and being responsible for our choices in life.  While the choices we make have a major bearing on outcomes, on a macro or purely statistical level relationships are a coin toss with fifty-fifty odds.  There are just too many, ever changing variables, for any checklist or formula to work for everyone.  So as we celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary this month, I am at a loss for advice and words of wisdom for others.  What works for us, most likely would not work for you.  We all have to find our own way.

Inevitably that will mean mistakes are made along the way.  Perhaps the question is not so much how to avoid them, but what we do after.  Do we bear our scars like badges of honor or do we absorb, assimilate and advance down the road wiser yet unburdened?  Dragging our past along with us, like a ball and chain, impedes our growth and forward progress.  Common also, is a desire to blame others for our misfortunes.  By refusing to look in the mirror and accept some tacit culpability, at least as an enabler, we are risking a repeat performance.

I have known those who don the cloak of “victim” and tailor it into a suit of honor.  Displaying weakness and vulnerability is far from attractive in my eyes, especially in a man, and sadly seldom evokes the sympathy that one desires.  Decisions made in the throws of emotional turmoil are seldom wise and well considered.

From my single days, I recall many a past relationship that was fraught with emotional blackmail and threats of breakup, only to be followed by passionate makeup.  Up to a point I was tolerant of those outbursts but always made myself clear.  If those words ever came from my mouth, they would only be heard once.  It is my belief that one should never threaten anything you’re not prepared to follow through on.  To that end when I said, “if you walk out that door, I won’t be here when you get back” it should not have come as a shock, that upon return, I was indeed gone and unreachable.  My new lair having been prepared in advance.

I am sympathetic with the trials and tribulations of my single friends but when situations that should be short lived drag on for years my patience runs thin.  Vilifying and demonizing someone you used to love, often evokes the opposite response one seeks.  It used to be that we admired a good looser who did not whine and whimper about the injustice of it all.  For me the best revenge is simply to live a good life, unaffected by those we perceive to have wronged us.  Man-up, mellow-out and move on, as it were.

I was happy as single lad and now I am happy as a married man.  Maybe it is that simple.  If your life is incomplete and unhappy, then simply changing your marital status is unlikely to change things much.  It is an unfair burden to place upon another person, to be responsible for your happiness.  Live a life filled with joy and happiness and then share that with the one you love.  Nurture them and let them bath in the warm radiance of your glow.  Demand more of yourself than you demand of others.

If you flip the coin and it comes up tails, smile at the chance to grow and learn.  Besides, the odds are the next toss will come up heads.

Birthdays ...

It is rapidly approaching that time of year when I must once again acknowledge the advance of time.  Not that I had intended being here talking with you today.  My wants were fixed upon the horizon and yet another adventure on my bike.  As I readied myself, the western sky darkened ominously and I was forced to rethink my plans.  So here I am at the keyboard, safe and dry as mother nature unleashes her fury outside my window.

Following a not too unusual chain of events it is now a day later.  Yesterday my wife offered a foot massage, which I could hardly refuse.  Followed by several games of Ping-Pong and a little “afternoon delight”, while the maid was outside doing who knows what, perhaps visiting with the gardener.  Later my wife suggested tootling around the village on her scooter and we made numerous stops along the way.  Dropping my wife off at her mother’s I continued home to be followed almost immediately by a repairman coming to replace a couple of screens he had installed last year and had been slightly damaged through heavy use.  My wife returned home at my beaconing to deal with the screen repair while I took care of Cookie, fed the fish and enjoyed the sunset.  With me trying to eat less these days, I remained home to look after things, while my wife once again returned to her mother’s to enjoy a large village style meal shared with family and friends.

As the ritual of my late morning Skype call to my father approaches, I once again find myself gathering my thoughts and trying to regain the place where I left off yesterday.  Though I never publish online the exact date of my birth, this is the month of both my birth and our anniversary.  The close proximity of both was no accident, as I attempted to make recalling the date of our anniversary all but foolproof.  Ten years of marriage and twelve years together and things continue down a blissful path.  Approaching fifty-five years of age seems to be more about decline than advance, however. 

As one ages thoughts sometimes drift toward things that could have been but never were.  Dreams of youth supplanted by the harsh realities of life and the consequences of choices made.  Personally I find myself dealing, not with regret, but with the consequence of perhaps too much fulfillment and contentment in my life.  I truly want for nothing these days except perhaps the vigor of my youth.  To lust for more than I already poses would be greedy and gratuitous to the extreme.

Even as I strive to polish the perception of my bountiful gifts and avoid the malaise of complacency, I am painfully aware that I have passed the mountain peak and find myself descending into the valley from whence I came.  One can debate the necessity or merits of facing ones own mortality, over denial or avoidance.  Some might say I peaked too early or set my sights too low.  Hindsight and what ifs are not familiar companions as I prefer to appreciate the moment and gently guide the direction of my future.  It is to that end that birthdays find me taking stock and wondering what else remains to be done.  Of course there are no hard and fast answers.  Just a series of questions and observations and the occasional course correction to accommodate the changing terrain and circumstances.

The White Temple, a different View ...

Our recent house guest was in the mood for quiet contemplation, thoughtful conversation, and visiting a couple of local temples.  Here is a sample of what we came up with.  Wat Rong Khun is well known and often photographed so this is my attempt to present a different view.

A Good Day ...

Oppressive heat and the occasional torrential downpour are hardly conducive to a leisurely outing on the motorbike.  Yesterday afternoon the confluence of just bearable weather and an aching need to put my knees in the breeze, had me on the road and heading to a rocky outcropping in the middle of a rice field.  Passing routinely, on our main route to town, I have often thought of approaching closer for a better look.  The dirt turnoff from the main road is still doable on the Phantom but with a few more heavy rains, it would surely become off limits to such a bike.  At speed it was comfortable enough but the moment I stopped to take pictures the perspiration began flowing freely.  As it turned out, morning light would have been more complimentary to my subject but one makes do with what one is given.  As I headed around the back of the mountain to see where the trail might lead, the phone rang.  Recognizing my wife’s distinctive ringtone, I was quick to answer and put her on speaker, as removing my helmet was too slow and cumbersome.  The flip-up, modular helmet comes in handy for phone calls, refreshments and taking pictures. 

Turns out a Thai friend of ours had called from his orchard in the hills near Sop Pao and extended an invitation to come gather some lychee.  Returning home, necessitated my passing very near, so on my wife’s urging I proceeded to my new destination.  Having been there only once before, I missed the unmarked turnoff and had to stop and ask directions.  As it happened my petrol light came on, signaling the need for a top up so I kept and eye out for the ubiquitous wooden shack with a row of glass cylinders half full of the pinkish fluid my trusty steed required to quench its thirst.

Finally arriving at my destination, I was confronted with the strange vision of my friend with an unusual umbrella contraption, strapped to his head.  What it lacked in beauty, it made up for in function and practicality, however.  Soon our gathering grew from two to seven with the arrival of his wife, sister and others.  We took in the view from his hillside shack, talked and sampled the fruit from the trees.  I was tempted to linger till sunset but thought better of driving in the dark and took my leave in the late afternoon, saddlebags stuffed to overflowing with fruit.

I arrived home to children playing volleyball in the driveway and my wife fashioning paper bags over her favorite mangos, to keep them bug free as they ripened on the tree.  Cookie and I enjoyed our own private, pond-side sunset and marveled at the fish as they competed for every fistful of pellets that scattered upon the water’s surface.

Did I accomplish anything on the day?  Was I productive?  Did I earn my daily bread?  Will anyone but me, be moved by or remember these simple pleasures?  I think not.  Ask me, however, if it was a good day and you will see a smile creep into the corners of my mouth and a far off look in my eyes as I say nothing, merely nodding in silent affirmation.

The Human Condition ...

There lurks in the heart of every man, remnants of that savage untamed beast that begat us in the dark long forgotten past.  Deep in the intertwining double helix strands of our DNA, remain the primal drives and instincts that allowed us to not only survive but to search out, conquer and destroy all that lay before us.  Much of humanity continues to rely heavily on our primitive past to navigate and survive the ravages of our still savage planet.

For the modern man, living in a civilized world, there is a need to distance ones self from, and silence, those dark inner voices.  To use our inner beast to justify our savagery and disregard for others, is to deny our humanity and remain primitive and unrefined.  “I can’t help it, that is just the way I am” is a sad and demeaning plea that suggests the lack of choice or self-determination.  Our cerebral cortex and its executive functions were not evolved simply for show, to remain idle and unused.  Our feelings are perhaps beyond our control, as chemicals course through our veins.  Our actions are, however, within the realm of our control and I might argue necessarily placed under that control.  Choice is not limited to fight or flight as some might suggest. 

Control and self determination seems to have been an early theme in my life.  Stories of how I stubbornly took the clothes laid out upon the bed and returned them to the closet, only to make my own choice.  At least that is the way my mother told it.  I remember high school as a time when many were experimenting with hallucinogens of varying sorts.  In my time spent as a volunteer in drug clinics, encounter groups were all the rage as a means of therapy.  Those with greater dependencies often entered a rehab program led by Vinny, Izzy and Jerard.  Characters right out of the Godfather and ex-addicts from back East.  Encounter groups were quite confrontational and I doubt anyone escaped without being brought to tears at some point, myself included.  The point being that Vinny and others spent many an hour in those groups trying to dissect the whys and hows of my unwillingness to take drugs and others seeming inability to stop.  In groups and outside I was prodded and tested.

I remember a night spent camping on a small island just off the beach.  My friend and neighbor was moving soon to another state and pleaded with me to indulge on that night.  It seemed important to him that I give in, and somehow validate his own dependencies, one might guess.  Assuring me that no one would ever know, seemed to imply that he thought I was merely afraid of getting caught.  We talked of many things that night, as sleep was not forthcoming, and in the end he did not get his wish.  Even more than the taunting of my friend, I was tormented by the soulful moans of the seabirds nesting so near and the sand crabs scampering over my blanket, in complete disregard for my presence and piece of mind.

At school events where others screamed and chanted, I watched detached and with amazement.  On the few occasions where I was obliged to visit Lumpini Stadium, my focus was not on the squared circle and its performers but on the wild-eyed punters, thankfully restrained behind chicken wire, and so in touch with their inner animal.

In my youth, I was unable to adequately articulate why I did not follow the crowd and do as those around me did.  Over time I gained insights and understanding of my condition.  I find myself unwilling or unable to relinquish control to anyone or anything.  Be it group behavior, mind altering substances, charismatic individuals, or even governmental or religious institutions.  That is perhaps one reason I would not make a good soldier, religious follower, or group member of any sort, for that matter.  Even being a leader is out, as one must renounce some control over self to accept control over others.  One of my earliest schoolyard memories is of spurning the requests of those who saw me as their leader.  I had my own interests and they did not include the time consuming constraints of needy followers.

To maintain control one must, in the very least, be free of self imposed restrictions.  Debt, obligation, dependencies are choices in themselves that limit our control and scope of future choices and direction.  Some say they have no choice but I say we all have choices.  The problem being that we may not like what choices we have limited ourselves to.  Though I am not in the Ophra camp, of believing all 6.5 billion of us have some special and unique purpose on the earth.  I do, however, believe that through our choices we can either take control of our lives or relinquish it to others.  We can be proactive or reactive.  But then again what do I know?

Struggling with Commitment ...

The time of year.  The time of life.  Call it what you will, many of our friends far and near, seem to be suffering from relationship issues.  Commitment can prove difficult even under the best of circumstances but Thailand can make it difficult to the extreme.

This line of thought continued on down the page for quite some time before I hit the delete key.  Regardless of how right you are, I figure people just don’t want to hear it.  One listens to the pain of course but realistically what else can one do, but listen? 

Other than worrying about friends, life has been busy despite the oppressive heat.  We had our first heavy rain the other day with the subsequent swarms of flying insects.  The first night the lights were blackened by the infestation.  While birds, bats, fish and lizards feasted with gluttonous abandon they left hardly a dent in the carpet of bodies and wings scattered and still wriggling upon the ground in the morning light.  Humans were left out of the hunt until the following night when the Maeng Mun made their first appearance of the season.  Surely the next good rain will bring more swarming goodies to be fried up for the evening meal.

The social agenda has included more weddings, funerals, housewarmings, floats and rockets.  We made yet another quick trip to see a friend in Chiang Mai, coming back with more pots, and turned a ninety day reporting run to the boarder, into an all-day sightseeing and shopping trip, with the sister, niece and cousin in tow.  Having found Chiang Saen Lake on a previous motorbike ride, I fancied sharing the location with my wife and she with her family.  Arriving at the lovely lakeside venue, just in time for an early lunch for the others and a late breakfast for me, we were entertained by the owner of the hotel and restaurant.  Her farang husband being out of town, I missed a chance at a little expat conversation but my wife and I were impressed with his missus.  We traveled the back roads to get there, enjoying the less trodden path, though I must admit the narrow lanes were better suited for the bike than for the truck.  We added maybe twenty kilometers and a fair bit of time with our circuitous route to Mae Sai but the timing was perfect.

Pulling up to immigration just as the lunch hour came to an end, meant that I was in and out in short order, with my troop of followers hardly noticing I had been gone.  Not everyone wanted to stop off and see monkeys and fish, as we had planned on our return, so we went shopping a Makro instead, to prepare for the evening feast.  By way of negotiation the niece was promised a visit to the local zoo and the others an elephant ride with a side trip to the seventy meter tall Khun Korn Waterfall, at a later date.  With cleaner skies from the recent rain, mountain tops are again visible and there is more to see from the roads but with the temperature in the high thirties I am not looking forward to long sweaty periods on an elephant or in the jungle. 

What can I say, however, as I am committed to making my lovely wife happy.  We are both more concerned with what we can give than what we can get in return.  Perhaps that sums up our idea of commitment.  Doing what we can to make our partner, lover and best friend, happy.  Of course it only really works if both parties are playing the same game.  Commitment to the happiness of others with the subsequent benefit of our own sense of happiness, well being and contentment.  Could it really be that easy?