Northern Thailand and the Slowboat Down the Mekong
Between the rats scurrying across the floor, the demonic chanting, loud gongs and pig squeals, it was no wonder I had a tough time falling asleep. Exhausted after seven hours crammed into a coffin-shaped wooden slow boat, I was convinced that I’d lost my ass somewhere on the Mekong River between Thailand and Laos. I just could not feel my cheeks at all! Instead, I shook with the heavy vibrations of the GONG!, shattering the tranquility of Pakbang village in the jungle armpit of nowhere. Wide awake, I was convinced that some hippie travellers had taken Bong, the appropriately named manager of the guesthouse, seriously on his offer of opium and marijuana. One of them had clearly found a GONG!, another some Satanic chant, yet another finding her inner pig. I could not believe the villagers hadn’t strung them up yet. I would have, but I knew that rats were attacking my backpack, and leaving the mosquito net would be a bad idea, because then they would just attack me. So I lay awake till morning, absorbing the orchestral mayhem of this squeal-GONG!-chant-scurry-GONG!-scurry-squeal counterpoint, wondering why I had left Thailand in such a hurry.
Just a few days prior, I had found a charming little neighborhood to hang out in Chiang Mai, with a local pub called The Local, an Indian Mom & Pop diner where food was more important than money, and a late night reggae bar that never failed to liven my spirits. Between slow strolls to various temples and markets, Minesh and I watched rugby and drank beer and adjusted to the relaxed pace of the city. I began to recognize faces, to understand why some travellers choose the culture of northern Thailand over the beaches in the south. Minesh pondered buying the Mom & Pop, which was for sale, much like the English guy did when he bought The Local a few years back. You could actually live here.
We spent a great night watching young kids beat the crap out of each other in a Muay Thai Kickboxing competition. In the blue corner was a long, skinny kid with arms like spaghetti, pitted against the red corner’s short stocky kid with arms like cans of spam. Identifying with the string bean, I went blue and cheered as the kids pounded each other to the sound of a traditional Thai flute and drum. Local men bet with cash clutched in their fists, moms were nowhere to be seen. Before each fight, the boxers would do a little dance and honour each other and their teachers, and after each fight they would hug each other and chummily walk around the ring. Violence never looked more beautiful. Blood was fortunately absent, until fight nine when Red Corner blocked Blue Corner’s powerful kick with this face. He fell like a sack of curried coconuts, just meters away from our ringside seats. I’ve never seen anyone kicked out cold before, and I confess, it was rather thrilling. Once the salts awakened Red Corner, he hugged Blue Corner like a brother and the crowd cheered. Fighting is fantastic entertainment, so long as no one gets hurt.
Next Page »Gonzo Gallery for Northern Thailand and the Slowboat Down the Mekong
Search Modern Gonzo
