Tibet: (Dis)connect

This trip is my aunt’s seventh to Tibet. Her cultural literacy impressed me two years ago when we met up in Beijing. She had more Chinese language skills than I suspected, and she clearly knew her way around.

Slowly I’m coming to understand how she comes by that literacy. Her comfort zone is simply way bigger than average. She thinks nothing of striking up conversations with strangers, regardless of whether she has two words in common or 200,000. Sometimes she’ll pull up a chair at a neighboring table in a restaurant, either because those people are eating something that looks appealing, or because somebody there strikes her fancy: an old grandma, a cute baby, a wrinkled face sporting a stylish hat.

Or she’ll reach out to a person she senses is in need. Just today a pilgrim couple stopped outside our hotel’s front step. My aunt greeted them with the customary Tibetan blessing, “Tashi Delai,” which then somehow led to their request, via translation by the front desk staff, for medical help. The woman, probably in her mid-50s, complained of non-specific eye problems.

Talk about asking the right person! As it happened, we had eaten the night before with a person connected to a medical NGO in Lhasa. This friend of a friend soon had us pointed to a free eye clinic on the edge of town, where the woman got seen right away and came away with a year’s supply of eye drops and the comfort of knowing that she doesn’t need surgery. All it cost us was taxi fare and a couple hours of our free afternoon.

Most people wouldn’t have established the connection in the first place, let alone followed up on it. But with just a handful of Tibetan phrases, my aunt was able to pull off a random act of kindness that, if multiplied by just a small number of the travelers currently jetting around the world’s friction spots, could bring peace in those places many steps closer.

Yet my aunt also cried this evening. The loss of the Tibet she saw on her first visit, over twenty years ago, saddens her beyond words. Further, she continues to struggle with the tension between admiring her many Chinese friends and seeing how much discontent their government’s policies and investments have sown in Tibet.

Yesterday the Chinese government stopped issuing new permits to visit Tibet. We weren’t affected because we were already in. The ban will probably last about three weeks, because of fears that the 60th anniversary of the 1949 Communist victory might inspire protests in Lhasa. This kind of thing isn’t rare—foreign travel to the capital has been stopped three times over the last 18 months. I suspect tonight won’t be the last night my aunt cries here, however.

Tibet: But...

The trouble with Tibet is the “but.” It’s beautiful… but. In these days of spiritual emptiness and consumerism and climate change, Tibetan culture is a model that the rest of the world could take many lessons from… but. The level of investment and infrastructure relative to other Himalayan countries appears impressive… but.

The “but,” of course, is always followed by a statement about Chinese meddling. And “meddling” is the mildest of the many descriptions that could be applied to the changes and rules and colonialism and police actions that the Chinese government has brought to Tibet over the years.

The problem is not new. Depending on who’s counting, China has been in charge of Tibet since the 1950s, or since the 1200s. No doubt the Tibetans aren’t 100% innocent in the story of their own destruction. One can also make the case that even without any interference from China, globalization would have altered the way of life here. But…

Even viewed in the most charitable light imaginable, Chinese “support” to Tibet risks smothering its inhabitants. Parallels to the “settling” of the American West aren’t farfetched. Tibetans are long since a minority in their own land. Though no Chinese government statistics are ever made public, the number of residents in the region who can’t speak Tibetan is far above 50%—and no wonder, considering the education system that has been put in place.

Schools all operate in Chinese, teach a curriculum based on Chinese culture, and celebrate Chinese holidays. Many of the teachers are from the “interior,” sent by the government as part of a Peace Corps-like program known as Volunteers Aiding Tibet. Their aims are honorable enough—to serve, to make a difference in a place they see as needing development.

Yet unlike Peace Corps volunteers, very few of these teachers will make the effort to learn the local language. Absent that kind of respect for the local culture, the program, like many other aspects of everyday life in the region, looks to be part of a larger, calculated, shameless effort to make Tibet disappear.

How else to explain the forced display of Chinese flags “celebrating” 60 years of the People’s Republic? Or the bulldozing of an area directly across from the Dalai Lama’s former palace in order to build a Tiananmen-style plaza? And the countless indignities that ordinary Tibetans must put up with at the hands of their “liberators”: checkpoints, near-total Chinese takeover of commerce, Beijing control of religious succession, soldiers in green overcoats stepping carelessly among groups of prostrating pilgrims.

It makes perfect sense (and perfect irony) that the Chinese word for Tibet translates as “Western Treasure.” Far from feeling any embarrassment about its approach there, the Chinese government aggressively counters critics with claims of having improved the lot of the average Tibetan, and bemoans, in classic colonial style, the ingratitude of its victims.

We witnessed a display of this arrogance tonight at a Tibetan “cultural show,” one of those combination buffet and revue affairs that crop up whenever some entrepreneur senses that a way of life is at risk and that a buck might be made in the meantime. In this case the venue featured a line of food tables at the front of a long, rectangular room. Rows of dining tables faced the food, which when removed made room for a stage. A raised area at the back was reserved for larger tour groups.

This evening the large group appeared to come from central China (90+% of visitors to Tibet are Chinese, says our guidebook), although some of its members may have been local Chinese residents entertaining their visiting relatives. Wherever they came from, they were loud. And drunk. Perhaps their loudness and drunkenness was deliberately designed to provoke, like the raucous German singers in Casablanca’s Rick’s Café.

Unfortunately, no Viktor Laszlo stood up to demand the Tibetan equivalent of “La Marseillaise.” Instead, the toasting and carousing continued even after the cultural show began, seemingly in defiance of the scowling, tskking Westerners in the front rows. Aiding and abetting the Chinese was a Tibetan comfort woman, much to the chagrin and disappointment of our Tibetan guide.

I suppose that being the oppressor takes a toll, and at times involves as much stress as being oppressed. People in power need to blow off a little steam now and then, just like everyone else. But I’d have preferred they did their partying in private. By choosing that time, place, and hostess, this gang was grinding the police state’s boot heel.

Tibet: Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

Outside the hotel window is a never-ending stream of devotion. This pilgrim procession flows by quickly. Most everyone maintains a brisk pace, as though they were on their way to an appointment. Perhaps they do see their temple circling that way—hurrying to reach a better incarnation? or to more completely understand Buddhism’s great void of blissful freedom?

I stare for longer than I should. A note at the front desk from my aunt, who has arrived in Lhasa two days ahead of me, says to knock on her door as soon as I get there. Yet this scene is difficult to pull away from. After perhaps twenty minutes, the same faces come around again. Do they do this every evening? Have they been here all day? How far have they journeyed to come to this most sacred of Lhasa’s many sacred sites? minutes? days? years?

And what of these prostrators? They do their circuits half vertically, half horizontally. Each “step” begins and ends with the clapping together of upraised hands. To move forward they drop to their knees, stretch out one body length along the path, then stand again. Their chosen way slows their pace, but in exchange perhaps their merit is multiplied proportionally?

So many questions, so many pilgrims, and alas, so many soldiers. The pair on the roof next door—helmeted, sitting sniper style—ultimately convinces me that it’s time to stop being a voyeur and start being a good nephew. What an introduction! What a reunion!

Tibet is a Teacher

The flight from Beijing to Lhasa, Tibet’s capital city, has its own security check at the Beijing airport. The entrance is marked by the flight number, CA4112, rather than by the destination. But it doesn’t take long to establish that this is the queue for the Tibet Autonomous Region, as it’s known in official Chinese government-speak. “You are going to Lhasa!” says the woman who checks my boarding pass before I walk through the metal detector. It’s not a question, it’s an accusation. I nod yes and start to proceed. She waves me back: “Papers!” she says, not quite shouting.

I know that a special permit is required before going to Tibet. Mine is in my pocket. Nobody requested to see it in Bangkok, where my luggage was checked straight through to Lhasa. I hand it over now, to the woman who might be working for the airline, or perhaps for the airport, or for the Chinese equivalent of the Department of Homeland Security—it’s hard to say. She studies the permit with the care of a jeweler. This doesn’t seem to be a routine bureaucratic transaction.

Soon I’m passed along to the frisker. As with the papers inspector, the message seems to be, “No sudden moves, buster.” The pat-down is very thorough. A few minutes later he sends me on my way, still carrying everything I started with. Something tells me this trip will teach many lessons.

Air Nippon is a Slice of Japan

9am. Here I am changing flights in Tokyo on my way to a Midwestern 4th of July. The airport seems emptier than it should. Is mid-week travel is always like this? Maybe nobody flies during a down economy? Or are people staying home because they’re worried about H1N1? About five percent of my fellow travelers are wearing masks.

11am. The Japanese flight crew is preparing to close the doors so the plane can pull away from the airport. The boarding pass I received in Bangkok says seat 6H, so that’s where I’m sitting, but any minute now I expect somebody to tell me to move because I didn’t pay extra for business class. With a little luck, it will soon be too late to correct the mistake.

1pm. A friend recommended All Nippon Airways for its good service during travel to the U.S. He considers that the journey starts when you get to the airport, not when you arrive at the destination. I haven’t generally thought that way. Just get me there. But after the last two hours I’m quickly converting to my friend’s way thinking. In business class on ANA, they ask you by name what you would like to drink. Food is arranged on a ceramic plate in a way that forces mindful eating. The meal matters. Everyone treats me like a respected uncle.

3pm. I am re-reading the menu, trying to match names to what I ate for lunch. The courses are described as zensai, kobachi, and shusai. I’m guessing those terms must correspond to appetizers, main dishes, and dessert. But I’m no closer to figuring out which was which. Everything was about the same size, and nothing identified itself by sight as salty or sweet, let alone animal or vegetable. The brown cushion-shaped morsel could have been either the salt-cured sea squirt or the simmered taro.

5pm. Something is missing. I’m not talking about the stiff neck and cramped legs you get in coach after trying unsuccessfully for five hours to get some sleep. (Those things are missing, for sure, thanks to the way my seat reclines all the way into a bed.) I’m talking about announcements: we’ve reached our cruising altitude, the temperature outside is minus 35, the in-flight duty-free shop is about to open. Nobody is saying anything, except Ms. Mikami (we’re now on a last-name basis), who asks occasionally, “Another bottle of saké, Mr. Henderson?”

8pm. I have been sleeping for a while. My watch is still set to Thailand time. I lift the windowshade and see the tops of mountains sticking out of a sea of clouds, like islands. The peaks are sharp and partly covered with snow. Even though it must be the middle of the night wherever we are, it is light enough to see because at this latitude it’s always light enough to see in July. There are more peaks than I can count. Ms. Mikami, who is passing by, agrees that it is a beautiful view. “Does it happen every time?” I ask. “It’s the first time,” she says.

10pm. Even small things are better than they have to be. The SkyMap tells me the mountain islands are located between Juneau and Carcross. The down comforter has a little pocket for my feet. I need only point at my menu to have a steaming bowl of udon noodles placed on the side table next to my personal movie screen.

11:30pm. Soon I’ll be asked to unplug this computer and to press the buttons that will lower the leg rest and withdraw the neck support. I’ll comply reluctantly. Even though twelve hours is a long time to be in an airplane, this little taste of Japan has been delightful.

Australia is California

Great bird sounds in Australia! Such screeching and gurgling and cooing! Just stepping outside at Perth’s airport felt like stepping into a nature reserve. I stood at the curb, listening for the approach of a car that might contain our friend Margot. But car noise is rare there. Instead I heard cackles and squawks.

Likewise in Margot’s kitchen: Ibises strolled across her back yard. Cockatiels swooped from tree to tree, gossiping as they went. We heard budgies and Willie Wagtails and whathaveyou as we trekked/toured/traversed the beaches and vineyards of West Australia. In general it didn’t strike me as a loud country. The kangaroos I passed during some wonderful morning runs didn’t make a sound. But the birds kept up a racket. What must the place have sounded like before the Aussies turned all the prime habitat into housing tracts and shopping malls?

For Perth does have a Californian vibe. Surfboards and sandals rule. Brand names are big. No need to tuck in that shirt. The glare of the sun is similar in both places. Cars in Fremantle and Mandurah glide and hum, always well muffled, just as they do in the San Fernando Valley.

And nobody sweats! Coming from the humidity of Bangkok, I couldn’t get over my lack of perspiration. According to the thermometer, temperatures in the two places were identical. But according to my skin, I was in a new world. Even an hour’s worth of exercise didn’t produce a sweat.

The California comparison doesn’t hold up across the board: Perth people don’t seem to build too many swimming pools behind their homes (perhaps because, like Californians, they’ve got water supply issues). But we did take a drive through the thriving Margaret River wine country (“exceptional Cabernets”) and a boat cruise through some exclusive canal neighborhoods (the local equivalent of movie stars home tours in Hollywood).

Both outings would have left many Californians feeling right at home. Until they turned on the evening news sports report, that is. Australians love their footy. As one of those helps-if-you-grow-up-with-it sports like baseball and cricket, Australian rules football’s appeal seems partly based on exclusivity. Nobody else in the world can understand it.

Khao Lak and Krabi are Krowded, but Koh Lanta is Lovely

A trip to the South a few months back left me with the fantasy that the Andaman coast is an endless, cheap, and unspoiled paradise, visited only by a small handful of in-the-know tourists. Had I thought rationally about that fantasy, probably I wouldn’t have booked a second trip to that part of the country during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. During that time of year, the chances that Thailand’s western edge will be empty, primitive, and inexpensive are about nil.

But as I say, the imagination had bound and gagged the rational lobe. I soon found myself on a long beach called Khao Lak, surrounded by older German-speaking women wearing bikinis that frankly did not become them.

Good friends from Seattle were with me, so my mood was not dark. I was just surprised. Several people had highly recommended Khao Lak to us. Nobody had mentioned that this Thai town wouldn’t have any Thai language signs, nor that pancakes would be easier to find than pad thai.

What Khao Lak does have is easy access to a stunning set of islands known as the Similans, which have a reputation for offering Thailand’s best scuba diving. Every morning during this high season, a flotilla of speedboats pounds across the Andaman for about 90 minutes, arriving at coves containing countless colorful critters. Divers and snorkelers can choose whether to stay the night on live-aboard boats that are parked in the coves around the clock, or to pound back to Khao Lak in time for some schnitzel and beer on the beach.

We did the snorkel thing, we did some fine sunbathing, we even took in a small ceremony to honor tsunami victims (Khao Lak was hit especially hard by that disaster; our visit happened to coincide with its fourth anniversary).

Then we moved down the coast to Krabi. If this province were picked up by helicopter and deposited in the United States, it would be instantly declared a national park in its entirety. Its karst limestone cliffs, perfect beaches, and general overall stunningness fit all the national park criteria. Alas, Krabi also has national park-style crowds. Predominantly Swedish crowds. Paddling with a large group of fellow tourists on a kayak daytrip, we heard several accents, but the Scandinavians stuck out. At the Krabi airport we noticed direct charter flights to Stockholm.

Somebody told us that the rock climbing routes starting from Krabi’s Railay Beach were about as good as climbing gets in this part of the world. We hired a boat to run us over to Railay the next day. It was shoulder to shoulder—not with climbers but with New Year’s revelers. Numerous temporary stages were being set up in preparation for late-night partying by the water.

We retreated to the big city. My Seattle friends returned home. By chance I had occasion to travel south of Bangkok twice more in February. Naturally, when my neighbors, Nick and Maem, called near the end of the month to say that they were going to the South for a few days and did I want to go along, it was pretty easy to decline. But when they asked a second time, suggesting that I meet them halfway through their trip at a nice place called Koh Lanta, what choice did I have really?

I’d first heard of Koh Lanta during our kayak daytrip. An Australian was lamenting that Lanta was “too quiet, without any of the night life they’ve got here in Krabi.” I said, “What was the name of that place again?”

Lanta turned out to be even more peaceful than I had pictured. Of course it didn’t hurt that we stayed at the resort furthest from the ferry dock, or that it wasn’t New Year’s. I woke up early each day just to savor the empty beach, or to run over to a picturesque lighthouse at the tip of the island. Nick, Maem, and I enjoyed several delicious Thai meals. As we sat one evening in silence, digesting, enjoying the sunset, it was easy to convince ourselves that we were in an endless, cheap, and unspoiled paradise, visited only by a small handful of in-the-know tourists.

Trang is Tranquil

I hadn’t been much to the Andaman Sea before last week, when I ferried out into it for about an hour to a square island with sheer cliffs on all sides. The only habitable spot on Koh Laoliang is a beachlet, 500 meters wide and 100 meters deep. An entrepreneur puts up a handful of safari-style tents six months a year.

Nobody at all lives there in the rainy season because the waves are generally too rough to land a boat. The island’s lone permanent structure is a tall metal pole supporting four large speakers, an early warning system paid for out of the flood of international donations following the 2004 tsunami.

It was Thanksgiving, our office had several days off in a row, and a group of friends from work had flown down to Trang on one of the last flights out before protesters closed the Bangkok airports. We had booked two nights on the island, but as there were a few minutes before our ferry departed the mainland, and the future was uncertain, somebody bought two cases of Heineken.

We passed our days doing what people do when they don’t know how much longer they have: kayaking, card playing, snorkeling, rock climbing. When the time came to return home, the sea wasn’t cooperating. Our group and one other planned to take the ferry back to Trang, but riding a long-tailed boat out from the island to meet it, and docking with it, looked like a challenge.

The solution was for the boatmen to wade next to a kayak, pulling us away from the beach one at a time, until everyone in our group was aboard the long-tailed boat. They said they would have to come back for the second group. Understandably, the boatmen were in a hurry to return for them, so we weren’t too concerned when they rushed us onto the ferry after (rather forcefully) coming up alongside it. What we hadn’t understood was that the long-tailed boat had been damaged in the collision, thus stranding the second group until another boat could be found. The ferry didn’t wait.

Our trip home was otherwise uneventful. We stopped for a couple hours at a lovely hot spring. A cute little kid, no more than six or seven years old, took all of our orders flawlessly at the local food center. Nobody was even bothered too much about having to take the overnight bus because the Bangkok airports were still closed. We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, and frankly didn’t much care.

Malaysia is Multicultural

On the 4th of July in Kuala Lumpur, no fireworks went off that we were aware of. But the design of the Malysian flag looks much like America’s, so at least that part was familiar.

Coming from Bangkok, our first impression was that we were in a much more developed place—efficient, centrally planned, proud of its successes. Seeing only the capital, we couldn’t tell how evenly Malaysia’s wealth is distributed, but KL’s streets and sidewalks at least looked in much better shape than what we’re used to.

At first glance the signs in Malay offered no clues. But after a few minutes, words and meanings began to pop out, like used to happen with those hidden-picture drawings as a kid. “Sentral” was obvious enough as the word to describe the main bus station; likewise, it wasn’t surprising to see “Polis” marked on the door of a car with a flashing light on top.

The hotel posted a welcome to a group of “eksekutifs” and offered a “cyberjaya” for anyone wishing to use the internet. Another term that quickly made itself clear was “dilarang,” as it was generally followed by a long list of no-no’s. Not only are flower picking and littering prohibited in a public park, it seems, but also writing and peddling and perhaps kissing.

Somebody suggested we visit the Highlands, which sounded refreshing. Soon we were suspended in a sky cable car, looking for monkeys in the rainforest below us. I looked forward to hiking around the top of the mountain when we finished the two-mile ride. Instead we found ourselves surrounded by casinos, amusement parks, and hotels that would have been right at home in southern California or southern Florida.

I had no idea such a familyfuncenter existed in Southeast Asia, and perhaps unfairly, I didn’t expect to find casinos in a Muslim-majority country. But Malaysia turns out to be many countries in one. A museum we visited the next day in Malacca featured displays on the various eras of the past six or so centuries: Sultanate, Portugese, Dutch, British, Japanese, British again.

The mixture shows up clearly in the food offerings. Crossing Malay and Chinese food produces a cuisine called nyonya. The many curry and roti shops made me feel I was in India.

Not only is Malaysia the former centerpiece of colonial power in the region—“Whoever is Lord in Malacca has his hand on the throat of Venice”—but since independence about 50 years it has spent some of its natural resources prosperity on “kontemporari” symbols of achievement to go along with its “tradisional” attractions. The Petronas Towers were briefly the world’s tallest buildings. The federal government’s activities have been moved to a shiny new showcase city about 15 miles from both the capital and the airport, presumably because concentrating too many of the country’s aktiviti-aktiviti in one place is dilarang.

Uthai Thani is Out of the Way

It’s the kind of provincial capital where the dogs don’t get up from the middle of the street when they see a van coming. As we got close to town, maybe only ten kilometers to go, a little kid at the back complained that he really couldn’t hold it any longer. The driver stopped. Somebody slid open the side door so the kid could pee at the edge of the road.

My hotel’s proprietor stopped at the circuit breaker as we walked down the hall, to make sure my room’s electricity was turned on. It wasn’t the hotel I expected to stay at. I planned to go on that evening to an even smaller town, near a wildlife sanctuary that I found by accident on the Web. But a late start from Bangkok meant I missed my connecting bus, so there I was in Uthai Thani.

Shortly after settling in to the room, I got a call from the owner of the place in the small town. She was worried I’d gotten lost. That same kind of thoughtfulness radiated from her the next day when we finally did meet. She welcomed me for nearly an hour, talking in Thai of things we both really were interested in, not just about the weather or how long she’d been in business.

Here I was thinking that I’d come to surround myself with the beautiful landscape and its biological diversity. But the main attraction turned out to be this beautiful human being. She invited me to have dinner with her and her husband, the deputy mayor. We ate home cooking, not restaurant food. I felt more like a relative than a guest.

Then out of the blue appeared a fellow speaking English in an accent I didn’t recognize right away. This was Mark, from the Philippines, who teaches English to the youngsters in town. He explained that the school board couldn’t afford a native speaker, but were happy to pay him double the salary of the local classroom teachers, along with free room and board and the use of a motorcycle.

The only downside is that he doesn’t speak much Thai and nobody in town speaks much English. So when a roundeye like me shows up at this lovely little roadside resort, Mark wanders over and dives in to the conversation that he’s seemingly starving for. I didn’t mind. He soon had me in stitches with a story of being hospitalized after eating a pound of crabmeat at one sitting.

I had to smile, too, when we ended up going together to an unusual temple that sits a little way outside town. Even though he’d been there before, he couldn’t remember the way, and so thought it best to pay somebody to take us. Finding a driver was easy enough, but explaining what we wanted to do then fell to me. The newcomer helped translate for the local.

We made it. Wat Tham Khao Wang was gorgeous. The style and the building materials were like no temple I’ve visited in Thailand. If the monks there are the ones who keep up the extensive gardens surrounding the pond, I wondered how they also had enough time to pray and meditate. Should you find yourself in the neighborhood of Ban Rai, I recommend stopping by. Better yet, ask around for Mark and see if he wants to come along.

Koh Kood is Damp

Rainy season came early this year, but we went to the islands anyway. Our speedboat left from narrow finger of Thailand that pointed us toward Koh Kood along a route parallel to the Cambodian hills in the distance. Not that we could see those hills. The downpour kept us from even raising our heads. After an hour on the water, in spite of the boat’s canvas roof, we were all soaked to the skin.

Luckily the sun broke through just as we arrived. The owner of the cottages we’d booked was waiting for us with a warm seafood lunch. Seven of us passed a long weekend exploring the island, splashing around in a freshly recharged waterfall, or playing Scrabble indoors whenever the monsoon returned. (Little did we realize that a cyclone was hitting Burma at the same time, about 1,000 km to the northwest.)

Everyone else in the group speaks Thai better than English. So I struggled to keep up with the conversations, and surprised myself with how quickly the total immersion helped me pick up new words. Even the Trivial Pursuits-style games and the Scrabble were easier than I expected. If I keep traveling with this gang, I could get fluent pretty fast.

But I suspect we won’t return to this island unless we can get a sunshine guarantee. During the boat ride back, the skies opened again. Umbrellas were useless. We found the best sitting position was the one they recommend on airplanes “in the unlikely event of a water landing.” By leaning forward and grabbing our ankles, we retained as much of our body heat as possible.

By looking down we also could ignore the suspicion that our boat driver was lost. He finally cut the engine and admitted that without his familiar landmarks he wasn’t sure. We waited about ten minutes while the rain pelted our backs. Some people no doubt had now begun to find their prostrated position was also convenient for praying.

Happy ending. A fishing boat crossed our path, we were pointed in the right direction, and the mainland appeared just in time for the sun to shine again.

Mae Hong Son is Muddy

Up in Thailand’s northwest corner, at the end of a road the t-shirts claim has 1,864 curves, is a little town of about 8,000 people. It’s hilly country, full of views and tribes.

A few of us flew there on a long weekend, looking to find fresh air and other things that are rare in Bangkok. We were the only ones on the flight.

Our guest house was also quiet. We weren’t sure what tourists do in Mae Hong Son, other than perhaps recover from their journey along the winding road.

As we strolled around town, we spotted signs for a guide service advertising “uncomfortable tours” and “bad jokes.” Soon we were riding in the back of the guy’s uncomfortable pickup truck. He pointed out some cows with huge horns. They were wearing wooden cowbells. “Why do the cows here have to wear cowbells when they walk on the road?” he asked us. None of our guesses was correct. After we gave up, he said, “because their horns don’t work.”

The guide’s twin boys came along on the tour. They looked about five or six years old. Both had shaved heads except for a topknot that hung halfway down their backs. In the old days, lots of children wore that traditional hairstyle as a way to protect the spirit in their heads, known as kwan. Now you don’t see it much. We didn’t ask the guide about the topknots, nor did he make any jokes about them. Kwan is serious stuff.

We ended up at a hot spring. Workers wearing green uniforms offered us a choice of mud mask or full body mud wrap. They painted the mud on our faces and then we washed it off after about 20 minutes. Now we are much more beautiful than we were before. No joke.

Vientiane is a Village

You don’t have to go far to find the village at the heart of Laos’s capital city. Within walking distance of our hotel, cooking fires spiraled smoke from behind countless homes. The temples I saw during a short run in the direction of the airport looked to me like real working religious communities, being swept by regular monks. These were not the kind of shrines that attract tourists or that house senior clergy.

Our group had arrived for a small-town event, a friendly soccer match between counterparts from the same organization. The hosts in Vientiane had lured us Bangkok folk north with the promise of a big post-game feast. True to their word, they roasted two buffaloes to feed the many players and spectators.

That morning, before crossing the Mekong and entering Laos, we’d wandered among local specialties at the morning market in Nong Khai, the Thai town closest to Vientiane. I skipped buying chicken fetuses (still half in the shell, feathers still wet), but happily breakfasted on Vietnamese baguettes (Hanoi is the same distance from Nong Khai as Bangkok is).

Next to the market is a handsome temple known as Wat Pochai. The painted scenes of daily life inside it seemingly cover every Thai and Lao custom. Quite a lot of prime wall space is dedicated to a Loch Ness-like phenomenon near Nong Khai known as the Naga fireballs.

These weird glowing orbs pop up from the middle of the river (or is it just beyond?) every full moon night in October. Some skeptics insist that the fireballs are not really projectiles from a serpent’s mouth, but rather methane gas escaping from the river bottom. But try telling that to the 200,000 spectators who show up to watch.

Likewise, I knew better than to press too hard for details about the healing balms and oils that were being sold outside the temple. Based on smell alone, these products told me they would remedy whatever ailments resulted from our soccer match. I took advantage of a buy-two-bottles-get-one-free offer.

As it turned out, our hotel in Vientiane was across the street from a massage shop. It appeared to be closed on the morning after the game, but a teammate inquired whether the opening time posted on the door was really the opening time. A few minutes later, three of us from the Bangkok squad were flattened out on adjoining mattresses. The hands that kneaded out our aches and pains felt as if they’d been strengthened in the village.

Nakhon Si Thammarat is Nifty

What I’ll remember longest from staying three days at a wildlife conservation center down south are the swatting, flirting, pajama-clad Thai middle schoolers. Pre-adolescents seem to play in a primal way, no matter what country they come from.

This group of 20 or so had come for a weekend camp of the get-to-know-nature variety.

My friends and I had flown to Nakhon Si Thammarat from Bangkok to enjoy a lovely government-run patch of forest facing the Gulf of Thailand. We also hoped to spot two unique local species: crab-eating monkeys and pink dolphins.

Dinner for overnight guests at the center was served at long picnic tables under a shelter. The kids switched places throughout the meal, as if sitting next to a new person somehow provided them with purer, healthier oxygen. Their banter wafted over to us.

Suddenly they leapt up as one, called by some unseen force. Later we saw that the counselors had harnessed their creaturely natures and were leading them in songs and games about the importance of preserving wilderness.

We joined in on the tail end of their gymnastics, then retired to our quiet bungalows for some adult conversation. Electricity flows to this remote spot, but not television or mobile phone signals, so talking to each other was our only entertainment option. A nice change from Bangkok life.

The next morning a local fisherman toured us along the coast in search of the monkeys and dolphins. We spotted both, about five minutes apart, just at the time we were tempted to turn back because the scenery was beginning to get monotonous. Our excitement, to an outside observer, probably looked like we were back in middle school.

Saraburi is State-of-the-Art

After I told the bus driver the name of the famous, ancient wat I was planning to visit in Saraburi Province, he told me to keep my eye out for a grand archway. Buddhist temples here generally announce themselves with an arch on the main road, even if they’re set way back and out of sight.

Soon I spotted the place. It was clear from the entrance that just because it was old didn’t mean the place was out of date. Not only was the temple’s name proclaimed in large letters, but also—if you look closely at the picture you’ll see it below—the address of its website appeared prominently.

Wat Phra Buddha Bat indeed felt modern and hip. It’s been rebuilt several times in the nearly 400 years since a hunter found a footprint in limestone that was thought to have been left by the Buddha himself. In the meantime it seems to have become a popular place for young men to enter the monkhood, which most Thai men do, even if only for a short period. The three-month Buddhist lent that began recently is a common time of year to undergo this rite of passage.

So the wat was packed with two or three hundred teenagers and 20-somethings. I showed up just before noon, as they were filing out of a huge meeting hall, having just finished their final meal of the day. Their alms bowls were already washed, and they had a short break before afternoon studies began. A few brave ones stopped to chat with me as I sat at a table with my journal.

This little glimpse of temple life was great fun for me. The castle-like structure that houses the footprint itself was impressive, but somehow less special than watching the comings and goings of Buddhism in the 21^st century.

Kanchanaburi is Calm

Back when I first lived in Thailand, my old friends Hose and Vinnie passed though the country and we made a hilarious trip to the land of waterfalls and death railways known as Kanchanaburi. As I recall, we had adventurous plans on striking out for the province. Instead, we spent most of our time at one restaurant on an island in the middle of the River Kwai, re-living our school days. We had plenty of stories to last us, and the food was excellent.

This past weekend included a national holiday on Monday for the Queen’s birthday. I decided to head back to Kanchanaburi to see what I’d missed. A work friend wanted to go too. His sister has a place there. He’d never visited it before.

We traveled in his car. Neither of us had any goals. The air was clean and the mountains were tall and we drove at normal speeds along the pleasantly winding roads, stopping whenever we felt hungry.

Near our breakfast spot, elephants crossed the road three times, led by their mahouts. A couple hours later, we each had a bowl of noodles near a lovely seven-tiered waterfall, where loads of other Bangkok tourists had come to picnic. Two or three meals after that, we found ourselves at the edge of a small town square, watching teenagers circle slowly on their motorcycles, flirting furiously while pretending to do evening errands for their families.

In lots of ways this trip was just as slow and uneventful as my earlier one. I thought about something Thailand had taught me back then. At the waterfall, a few young monks were using one of the small falls as a slide. Dressed in their orange robes, they climbed it again and again, inventing new ways to slip down it each time.

On my earlier trip, we had shared a train compartment with some older monks. All of them were smoking cigarettes, in spite of what we were sure were rules prohibiting monks from such behavior, especially on public transportation. To this day, Hose and Vinnie jokingly urge me to beware of corrupt monks on trains.

What struck me again is that most monks are in fact just regular guys. Buddhism, at least as it’s practiced in this country, doesn’t seem to worry itself too much with the sacred. Surely, rituals and rules are central, but so, it seems, are walkmen and Marlboros and the occasional afternoon spent playing in the water, with no goals other than seeing what evolves.