In With The In Crowd: Guay Tiao Sportsmen & Lanna Noblemen

This past week, in between leading young minds through the intricacies of irregular past tense verbage and the correct pronunciation of "I feel furious!" (fwoo - lee - us! ...mostly for my own amusement), my hours were spent hiking trails in the mountains of Nan, eating at the abode of ancient Nan nobility, and playing late night riverside soccer.

Pretty typical as of late: If there's one thing distinguishing this year in Nan from last, it's a jam-packed social schedule. Nan somehow went from being a sleepy river town that lent an abundance of peaceful idle hours, to a sleepy river town in which we seem to constantly have people to see and places to be. My roommates asked if last year's fellows and I were lying in reporting to PiA that Nan is all about lazy afternoons spent scribing letters and catching up on light reading - or in Emily's case, Moby Dick. In just over a month of being back, I've landed in places as far between as a Chiang Mai nightclub called "Spicy" (not proud of it), and a national park on the outskirts of Nan city. In forty days, I don't think we've eaten at the same noodle stand twice (with the exception of Soup Lady and Ricky's, of course), and yet there are still more places popping up that I want to try. And while I still spend plenty of time with old familiar friends, I've added a wealth of new Thai buddies to hang out with on the reg. 

THESE guys. 

The best of these buddies are Benz and Bas - two skinny-jean wearing, emo-screamo-music-loving local Thai guys our age. Along with Will, another American teacher who lives near our soi, and the occasional add-on emo Thai, they are the first people we call on to eat late night noodles or attempt a karaoke night. Bas is a student at the university, and Benz has a day job at the Provincial Office - but skateboarding is both of their true passion. They practice for hours every evening by the riverside, where we'll often go hang out and play pick-up soccer afterwards. (You know I really enjoy someone's company if I'm willing to play organized sports in front of them). 

Benz and Bas both speak passable English, but are always wanting to learn how to be more American. We farang teach them some important phrases - "Last night, I had beer goggles" - and traditional card games like Bullshit. We give pointers for some sayings (every English learner should know that people don't look "orderly" and it's weird to ask someone regularly if they've showered), and in return, Benz and Bas teach Will how to pick-up girls in Thai and translate phrases like "Easy, tiger" for us (Jai yen yen, na!). Some Benz and Bas-isms, however, we let be; Will once pointed out to Benz that he was sweating profusely while eating his guay tiao (noodle soup)... Benz replied, matter of factly, "Yeah - it's because I'm a sportsman." 

Really hideous.

Last Friday, the seven of us took motorbikes out for an impromptu camping trip to Mae Charim National Park - about an hour outside of the city district. We borrowed tents and sleeping bags from a friend, packed our backpacks, and set off just as the sun was preparing to set - and as rain clouds gathered ominously overhead. 

The drive, like all drives out of Nan, was as stunning as it was winding. We passed lolling stretches of rice paddies, vibrant green hillside, and dawdling cattle walking the roadside along the way. About 40 minutes into the drive, when we reached the town of Mae Charim, we had to succumb to the rainy season; as the pitter-patter turned into an all-out downpour, and the sunset turned to black night, we chowed down on pad krapow at a roadside stand. We contemplated turning back, but since we were only 20 minutes outside of the park entrance, we pressed on as soon as the rain died down. At the park, the staff recommended we not pitch tents along the riverside campgrounds - something about possible flash flooding overnight, psssshh - so we were forced to forego our romantic ideas of campfire stories and sleeping under the stars and to squeeze into an 80-square-foot cabin for seven people. I tried to Mai bpen rai (no problem!) the situation, but Bas just looked at me and said, "You sure? Sure mai bpen rai?"

Group shot mandatory!

The sleeping arrangement (four in the bed, one on a ledge, one on the floor, and one sitting up) was less than comfortable, but we did wake up to stunning views of the park. After showering in shifts, we set out for a two kilometer hike up into the mountains and back down to the river bridge. The scenery, gorgeous in every direction, swept right away the soreness in my back and my aching Chang-over.

* * * 

Another new friend we've made in town is Jimmy, a 22-year-old Thai who works managing an up and coming resort in Nan. He studied in America for a while (he has an aunt who lives in New York), and speaks great English. Yesterday, Jimmy picked us up at the apartment in his truck, shoving our bicycles into the bed so we could take a ride later. He took us to see the resort - still under construction, but small and set to open in a few months for the high tourist season. It's not far out of the city center, and set in a gorgeous landscape of orchards and lush green fields. When finished, it will have a couple of bungalow-style rooms, a restaurant, and a swimming pool.

We spent a few hours walking around the orchard, eating lum yai fruit right off the trees, and helping Jimmy plant bushes along the front walkway. We met Jimmy's father, who told us in a strange British-Thai accent that he studied many years in England (at London University) and then at various places in California (including UC San Diego), then worked as a computer programmer and "played the stock market." He is older - perhaps in his late sixties - and obviously very well-educated. Jimmy said he retired when he returned to Nan, and bought the resort land for Jimmy to develop into his own business venture. 

House of Nobles. Nbd.

We rode our bikes from the resort to Jimmy's family home - which also happens to be a house of Lanna (northern Thai) nobles, and a famous museum in Nan. The house is over 200 years old, and features almost entirely the original teak wood structure - each plank cut out by axe, instead of a saw. It's kept in pristine condition, with photographs and old antiques featured in most rooms; it's free for tourists to visit, and Jimmy says that even now in the low season, people stop by at least 3 times a day. (I went once last year with Aj. Prakop, and remember Jimmy giving us our tour).

After visiting a temple nearby, where high school students were rehearsing dances and building floats for the upcoming Buddhist Lent holiday, we went to the market to buy fish, eggs, and curry for dinner. We brought it back to the house, where Jimmy set up wicker-basket tables on the floor, and brought over steaming mounds of khao nio (sticky rice). I don't know Jimmy so well yet, but as I sopped up the last drop of delicious curry with a fistful of sticky rice and looked around at his insanely cool house, I got the feeling we're going to keep him around. 

Tomorrow, Katie, Liza, Steph and I will head to Ayuthayya and the island of Ko Si Chang for the long holiday weekend. It promises to be exhausting - but I won't ever complain. The year is just getting started.

 

Water, Water, Everywhere And Not a Drop to Bathe In

I can't say we farang were all that prepared for the massive flooding that hit Nan this past week. While most Thais spent last Sunday morning clearing their houses and moving out to higher ground, my roommates and some of the other foreign teachers and I went out for a casual brunch followed by a lazy afternoon at the coffee shop, drawing and reading, fruitlessly trying to wait out the third straight day of hard rain to hit the province. A few Thai friends may have mentioned that they were preparing for a flood, and we noticed how high the river had suddenly become, but we only cheered when one of us got a call that school would be cancelled on Monday. Around 2 p.m., I got a call from Cho and Arm, who said we should stock up on food because there would be "a lot of water" coming. But even that dire-sounding warning didn't have much of an effect; I imagined last year's flooding in August, when a couple streets got a foot of water and school closed on a Friday, and so at the store we ended up buying things like mustard and almonds. After all, this was only the first week of the rainy season.

But then Monday rolled around. I woke up at 7 am to a call from my Thai friend Benz: "Nan have flood! I ride my bicycle in the water... Where are you? Yeah, I think you have ploblem if you leave your house today."

Ploblem, indeed: overnight, four feet of water in as many hours had spilled into our apartment compound, half-filling the first floor of our building and those around us. I went outside to see our next door neighbor shouting at her sister in the upstairs window while standing in a row boat below it... She threaded bags of food and supplies onto a handmade hook of twisted clothing hangers, while her sister scooped them up to the second floor. The rooms below us were half-filled to the ceiling with Thai-tea colored water (incidentally also filled with floating cockroaches and mounds of debris, making that comparison much less appetizing). Where drains below couldn't gulp up the water fast enough, patches of loud vicious bubbling appeared, making the water look like lava or stew. Our apartment had become an island, Soi 3 became a canal, and the main streets rivers. 

It was at least that flooded in the rest of the riverside areas, and in much of Nan city. From our second story porch we could watch the whole neighborhood out and about, sitting on rooftops or the top of stairwells, watching the water rush past, unable to go anywhere or do anything about it. Men in life vests rowed past our house in various forms of boatcraft - dinghies, longboats, motor boats - and later policemen patrolled around, bringing people water and picking up those who couldn't stay in their homes. Will and Ali, the young American teachers who live down the street from us, had been evacuated by boat from their lodge earlier that morning. 

Over the next few hours, the flood continued to rise. With my eye I marked it rising inch-by-inch on the wall of our neighbor's house, the water closing in on his bottom window sill, and over the handle bars of our bicycles nearby. By 11 am, it had risen about another half foot. Our power went out in the middle of the night Sunday, and it stayed that way for the next four days. We tried to conserve our cell phone batteries, in case we needed to call out for help, or get calls from friends. With no refrigeration or hot water, half of the food we had in our house was unusable. We munched on bread and peanut butter, and then the dry MaMa (ramen) noodles and shrimp-flavored chips that were delivered to us by a chubby tattooed Thai, volunteering with the police, who had to wade chest-deep in the flood from our driveway to our stairwell. 

Four straight days cooped up in a powerless apartment had its drawbacks. We spent most of the day neighbor-watching, reading, or snoozing in our hot stale rooms. When the sun set and we couldn't see the pages of our books any longer, we passed the time playing cards over candlelight, or doing battle in the dark with the seemingly hundreds of giant cockroach refugees who invaded our bathrooms (there is nothing more terrifying). When the water completely stopped running, we took bird baths out of tupperware containers and strategized the best ways to flush a non-flushing toilet (there is nothing more disgusting). Although we kept in relatively good spirits throughout the week, most of the time we were feeling hungry, antsy, and extremely unclean. 

Cho and our friend Dan came to visit us daily during the flood, in a newly-purchased river rafting boat, bearing gifts of tuna cans, steamed rice and leftover chocolate cake from the Best Bakery (the owner's refrigeration was down so was handing them out for free to passing boats). They described the scene outside to us. Bandon Sriserm had flooded several feet, as well as the market, most local shops and restaurants, and the city center. Patches of oil swirled along in the flood stream, leaking from the underground of motorbike dealerships. Across the river, the flooding was twice as bad; some houses had lost a wall or two as they sunk well below the water line. 

But even in the midst of relative chaos and natural disaster, the Thai smile persisted. People played in makeshift inner-tube-and-wooden-plank rafts, fishing or sending down nets to see if they might catch anything. Teenagers raced longboats down street alleys. Old ladies washed clothes on their rooftops, where kids dance around, excited to be out of school for the rest of the week. Even Cho, who had had both his house and his shop flood, just smiled and made jokes about his grumpy aunt-in-law (displaced by the flood and moved in with him) getting on his nerves. He said the flooding is okay, because "it happened before, and it will happen again." 

It wasn't until Wednesday that the flood finally started to sink away. But where water disappeared, a thick, slick, smelly layer of brown sludge was left behind - on the streets, the walls, fences; on Buddha shrines and bed frames left behind; on essentially anything touched by the flood water. On Thursday, after 96+ hours of being stranded, we were finally able to leave our apartment. We dug out and scraped clean our bikes, then wobbled over muddy filthy streets to the outside world. Some businesses in town, less hit by the flood, were up and running - but everything in our immediate neighborhood was at a standstill. 

A week later, there is still a lot of cleaning to be done. School is back in session, but an army of Army volunteers continues to come each day, washing and rebuilding parts of the first floor. Our apartment's power and running water have returned, and life is just about back to normal... But we're in the market for a raft and some rainboots, just in case.