As we did four years before in Africa, My father and I decided to travel to a country unfamiliar to both of us, and navigate through it with machinery that both of us were amateurs at. It was the most wonderful, changing, and bizarre experience that I had encountered in my seventeen years of kicking around. We lived out of our backpacks and his wallet as we moved on 125ccs of sleek scooter rocketry from location to location. We got to know each other a lot better then, as we had been fairly distant in recent years. We bonded on these trips. We knew it, and we let ourselves slip in our official appearances. We dropped our guards. We became comrades and adventurers. This was our third continent to visit together. I was an adult, almost. Things were different.
A paranormal vacuum vortex occurs when a semi truck stampedes by - dousing you in gasoline flavored mist. You feel sucked in, your heart races, you experience moments of pure panic, but with a tranquil clarity. It is sort of like, and opposite of, falling in love or deciding whether to kiss someone for the first time. Except instead of getting denied a kiss, the repercussion is being black-holed into a barreling truck. Same, but different. The roads are slick but the butterflies are still migrating in the occasional rain. When we stop to snack or drink water, we accidently watch them die; still fluttering confused and smashed into the front baskets of our bikes. Unlike humans, animals do not know when they are supposed to die.
We left Chiang Rai as early as we could in the morning, or rather as early as my Dad could get me to wake up. The night before had been reckless and risky. I had asked permission to go out drinking in a city that was completely unfamiliar to me, and received it. I met up with a couple ex-patriot falangs[1] and we all began drinking. Eventually, I had worked out a deal with one of them for an ounce or so of weed, and soon thereafter I was stumbling into the bathroom to puke violently until my insides had expelled everything they could. I careen back to the table and was greeted with eyes that conveyed a mature concern about the state of mind of an idiot kid. One man offers to walk me back to my guesthouse. I appreciate this immensely, however I cannot remember the name or the location of my guesthouse. So instead we walk around the city and he passes on all sorts of worldly advice that I forget. I am sure he dropped some useful gems of knowledge that I could’ve retained for future situations. Oh well. I am saved when I see a German couple walking around with a Lonely Planet guidebook. I ask them if I can look through it and finally recognize the name of my guesthouse. I write down the address and the concerned man walks me there and disappears.
My father isn’t super excited about my hideously late return. I explain the situation. During this explanation I realize that the real message that I am conveying is that I was acting stupid. I make a mental note to always keep the name and address of where I am staying on my person when I wander. The mental notes are stacking. I let him know that I did manage to buy some weed and he reminded me of the ridiculous repercussions of getting caught with marijuana in this country. I knew already that a two-year sentence in a 200-person cell for any quantity was a going standard for possession. I also really wanted to get high. My Dad thought I was an idiot, and as usual was right, but he didn’t take it away and he only rolled his eyes at me as I tried to tell him how to fashion a ghetto pipe out of an aluminum can. I sat on the windowsill, smoked my can, and fell asleep.
This brings me back to the slick, twisting roads snaking their way through the jungle. The jungles of Northern Thailand are thick and vibrant tangles of trees that teem with wildlife. They hum, chatter, and chirp as a plethora of birds calling out to each other and cicadas blasting that weave together into an ambience of pulsing tranquility.
We make a pit-stop in a city called Fang. We needed a snack, gasoline, and a momentary rest for our bottoms that had been vibrating down the road for a few hundred miles. It was the halfway point to our destination- Pai. In a gas station, I was approached by a young man who spoke a teeny bit of English and seemed extremely friendly. He introduced himself as Tin. Tin wanted to take me out to eat for some reason. Perhaps he wanted to practice his English and make a falang friend My father and I followed him to a restaurant that he informed us was “Number One!”. We small talked, and I really mean small talked as my understanding of Thai was limited mostly to “Stop Talking!”, “Delicious!”, “Hello”, and “Thank You!” Tin’s English was decent, but we couldn’t really communicate much. However, he was enthusiastic about wanting to do nice things for us. He insisted that he pay for the meal and wanted us to come and stay at his family’s house for the night. Why not? Tin made a phone call and returns to us with a large smile on his face.
We soon found out that Tin’s family is far and away the most powerful family in Fang, and quite possibly much of Northern Thailand. Dozens of square miles of orange groves greet us after we pass through the security check-point that is guarded by two men with rifles. It is beautiful. An endless horizon of short green blurs polka-dotted with little orange spheres. The smell was incredible. We slowly motored past clusters of elaborate houses as Tin pointed out which members of his families lived in each one. Four generations of family lived in what seemed like a village. This village, however, had a large gate around it and was peppered with guard towers and eagle-eyed security guards armed with scoped rifles. I guess you need to be pretty careful about people stealing oranges when you have so many. I feel getting shot for a delightful basket of citrus would be a pretty shitty way to go.
Tin showed us to the guest house we were going to be staying in so we could drop off our stuff. It was a beautiful place with huge statues of Buddha, dragon sculptures, elaborate paintings, and fine wood furniture. I think while at the same time we were both amazed and enthralled by the situation, we didn’t really know what we were doing here and it was kind of awkward. My dad was exhausted and he went to go lie down in one of the rooms. We had the house to ourselves. Tin picked me up with a little Jeep and we drove around to give me the tour and point out different types of oranges.
We were sampling different oranges, including one that you eat the skin of, when Tin’s radio went off to let us know that dinner would be ready soon. We sat outside at a long table which by the time we get there is decorated with plentiful plates of food. My father and I spoke mostly together with our eyes and in fragmented sentences to our hosts. Everything was delicious and we filled our bellies excessively at the encouragement of Tin’s family. Tin seemed very pleased with himself. We drank Singha Beer and whiskey and soon headed back to our own little private mansion to pass the fuck out.
In the morning we exchange email addresses with Tin, thank him extensively, and hit the road to Pai – a six hour ride. We smile as we weave past cars, goats, and cows and bond without speaking. We stop infrequently to snack and drink bottled water. We are close to each other, and I am having the biggest adventure of my lifetime. We grin as we purr through jungle roads slaughtering beautiful butterflies unknowingly on our front baskets. It seems too soon that we descend from the hills into the valley of Pai. We stop at a restaurant that our guidebook suggested was the shit and have our first real meal of the day. As we select a potential guesthouse to spend the next couple days in, I feel as if it’s never been better. Of course, I want to tell my friends about this wonderful place of magic, but feel contented getting closer to my father and planning my return trip. We check into an adorable little cabin on the hills of the outskirts of town. We sit with our backs to the walls talking about life and sucking back the beers we brought home.
In the morning, my dad informs me that he is going to rent a mountain bike and exhaust himself in the countryside. I extract spending money from him and tell him that I am in the mood to explore. Getting stoned and riding my scooter around aimlessly sounds like a pretty brilliant escape. Dinner plans are established – five o’clock at the same place we went last night. I get on my bike, start it up and putter into town. I was hungry but wanted to get a feel for this little tourist trap. I cruise around without direction until I find the street vendors.
Street food in Thailand is incredible and cheap. Various types of barbequed meat on sticks, sweet fruit shakes, huge hunks of chicken breasts, and chopped fresh fruit are found everywhere, while the more exotic items are found in the bigger cities. Banana shake and three skewers of pork is what I want this fine sunny morning. In Thailand they only have three seasons. Hot, wet, and cool. This is the cool season, and it doesn’t hardly rain a day during our three week stay. I feel that this food choice will taste even more delicious if I find a nice spot to get high before inhaling the nourishment. I realize at this point that I have forgotten my stash of weed and must return to the guesthouse to retrieve it.
As I open the door to our place, the atmosphere of the situation is very awkward. My dad is sitting on the bed reading yet the shower is running. The look on his face was that of a father whose son had walked in on him jerking off. He is surprised to see me, clearly. I explain that I came back for my weed and he releases an understanding “Ah.” Honesty is the best policy when your parents are cool and you really aren’t fucking up that bad. We are still on for dinner and as I leave I am thankful that I didn’t see the man who helped create me with his sperm abusing his penis when I burst in. I mean, I could’ve handled that kind of shit, we Are only human, but that image would have been burned into my mind for the rest of my life. But why was the shower running? Whatever, I figure, I got my weed and I am going to have fun.
I get beer, whiskey, soda, and gas at the petrol station and figure out the route to some local waterfalls. Upon my arrival I sneak off into the bush, thinking only of snakes, and burn a couple bowls in my soda can. Apparently smoking the paint and aluminum of a can isn’t that good for you, but we’ve all got to make sacrifices to get what we want. I wandered over to the waterfall and waste time drinking beer and watching some local kids slide down the smooth rock face lubricated by the gushing stream and splashing into the pool below. They look like they are having fun and I am having fun watching them have fun while I start to get fucked up. If I had started smoking cigarettes at this point in my life, I would have been chain smoking them here. I start to miss my girlfriend Lindsey a little bit, and my friends a whole lot, but I subdue these weakenings with an additional batch of bowls and a couple more beers. The cicadas are cheering – I think cheering for me and my lack of responsibility and how I am using it.
I cut myself off from the beer in order to drive safely, or more accurately I run out of beer and just kill a little more time trying to write in my notebook. I was writing some pathetic attempts at song lyrics in a wasted effort to describe how I was feeling and where I was - when I was startled. There was a toddler standing quite near my sitting spot who was staring at me. He wore a sweatshirt that probably used to be bright colors of blue and red but was now dulled with mud. This contrasted with his face, which was shiny and cheerful. I like little kids, so I did what I do sometimes to express affection to those I like; I made a hideous monster face. This did not go exactly as I planned. The corners of his mouth and eyes moved like polar opposite magnets across his face ; curving to the sky and earth with a clear look of distress. He did one of those choking about-to-cry baby sounds like a starter engine in slow motion, and began to cry.
So he doesn’t get it. Whatever. I choose to believe that my error is due to cultural differences of appropriate facial muscle movement and not the nightmare qualities of my hideous face. I convince myself easily that his sleep wouldn’t be disrupted for years to come. I shove my helmet back on, switch the keys on, and thump through potholes on my way back into town. Some sort of flying beasts seem to be having some sort of parade or protest in the sky as soon two have splattered against my visor, one on my chest, and another leaving a welt on the bare skin of my neck.
I arrive at the restaurant before my father does; a single local family is eating there and masticating happily without time for conversation. Yes, the food is good here. I select a table in the open air corner. I order a beer and a mango smoothie before even picking up the menu that is illuminated in the flickering light of four candles. My father rolls on in. His forehead is beaded with sweat, he is puffing slightly, and smiling. My father is into this kind of thing. I don’t know who got him suckered into this making your muscles tired to get stronger scam, but he fell for it. Anyways, this self-torture makes him happy, so he’s probably covered lots of ground today. His spandex aerodynamic bike-faster suit has obviously also met the bug exodus. We remark about this gathering as we order. We decide that they are termites just as the number increase exponentially in a less than a minute. The street lamp kitty corner to us is a beacon. Thousands of insects are swirling around it in a gradient haze of concentration. It is beautiful. The lamp above our head becomes a secondary beacon as the street light’s visitors are beginning to get a little congested. The termites blindingly strike and are repelled by the surface of the bulb. Unlike humans, insects do not give up. They are unquestionably determined. They slam repeatedly into the glow while making a subdued version of the sound when someone makes a toast on a wine glass. They begin falling to the table; their wings are gone and they crawl around frantically. Some however misread the lamp beacon and instead center on the various flickering candles. These are few, but those who do crash into the wax, which engulfs them, and burn hysterically flapping their disposable wings until the flame silences them and they melt. The parachute-less para-droppers have started to bump into each other on the table while we just watch with open mouths. They begin fucking, fighting, or perhaps attempting to merge with one and other. We watch passively until our food arrives, the server makes swooping motions with her hands, and when she leaves we escort the tabletop fornicators to the floor with our napkins
The food is delicious. We both ordered different style of curries and are happily sharing as we remark on what we are loving about this adventure. The food of course, was both of our primary pleasantries. It was flavorful, fresh, spicy, and different. We were leaving Thailand fairly soon, and we recapped some of our favorite moments and our excitement for another ride on the Chiang Mai-Bangkok night train. I decide to tell my dad about my lazy day of moderate vice, and he tries to explain to me the virtues of exercising. Yes, duh dad, everyone knows. When he see’s that this is probably not a conversation that will go anywhere, he shifts gears slightly.
“You know Ry, there is an incredible heightening of senses after a person exhausts their body, With the expenditure of all of one’s energy, I think the body appreciates what seems a be reward of sorts. An understanding of delicious taste can only be appreciated after such activities.”
This makes sense to me. He closes his eyes like purring felines do when scratched, except he is just relishing the taste of his Panang curry. The termite swarm has dissipated and we make eye contact during his pause. He breaks silence.
“Also…,” He has a considerable pause here, but begins to smile, “It may also have been the pot of yours that I smoked.” Wow. What? Shit has hit the fan. My dad smoked weed? No, this is not possible. He is kidding, delusional, or stoned. Wait, stoned? He is stoned! This is fantastic news. This is groundbreaking. I can never get in trouble again.[2]
We head back to the guesthouse after we eat and watch termites fuck and die. I wonder if he is excited as I am. Somehow this mundane activity breaches the gap in my head between family member and friend. We roll over ten joints. I tear the dirt weed apart and he spins the paper. We are into it. We are a factory. We are smoking and talking about our family. I am confused how this man, who I have seen so little of recently, can know so much about my life. Turns out we are in this whole thing together He claims he hasn’t smoked pot in twenty five years- I don’t believe him at all. He wants to turn on the shower and claims that the temperature of the hot water will force the smoke out the window. Okay, sure, alright dad, let’s run the shower and open the windows. Unlike him, perhaps because I am still drunk from earlier, I do not think anyone is after us. The weed is dirt, but the love was strong and I think this was the moment that my father and I became friends.
[1] Thai for Foreigner
[2] This reminds me of a time where I arrived home at the same time as my father did. He was ahead of me, and apparently did not see me behind him. I distinctly saw him throw a can of beer out of his car window on the drive-way up to the house. Yes. Security. Littering, drinking, and driving? Just try and tell me I am grounded for smoking weed. Just try me. I’ll expose you.
An enjoyable read. I traveled with your father for 7 months in south america when I was 17 and he was 18. Then another trip of 3 months in southern mexico. Haven't seen him since, should you see him, say hello from emily
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