Now I say chi-chi. What I really mean is a place that looks as if it were designed by a recent architecture grad. A cross between funky dorm room and Anasazi kiva. The dozen or so whitewashed cottages have little stars and moons carved into the walls. From the rooftop patios, reached by outdoor staircases, the view features sheep in the foreground. A long twisty driveway leads to the open-air breakfast room.
Everything felt newly unwrapped, as if the place had been a present from well-off Bangkokian parents to a child wanting to put art-school theory into practice. We had passed dozens of weekend getaways and stylish coffee shops with a similar vibe and vintage as our car left the plain and climbed Suan Phung’s slopes that morning.It occurred to me to wonder who had lived there before. Signs of farming-for-a-living were scarcer than most places I’ve been in Thailand. An orchid nursery owner told us he had been in business for more than ten years, supplying stems to wholesalers in the big city, but to me that didn’t count as traditional agriculture. Burma is only a few ridges away—was this smuggling territory? The well-maintained roads had clearly been built for something besides tourism. Maybe mining? Military? The district doesn’t seem to be on Lonely Planet’s radar. We didn’t see any other foreigners.
Nothing much was happening. The six of us, and the two dogs we brought along, made up more than half the guests. We watched the dogs chase the sheep. We picked up the sheep. We posed with the sheep. On Monday, we photographed a lamb born during the night. That afternoon we headed back the way we had come, pausing for coffees and pictures and scenery.
