Reaching a wat, I get hung up on the lion guardians for a while. They are grotesque with their pop eyes and curling lips, and they don’t scare me at all. The wat is full of gibbons, and I get hung up on them too, watching fascinated as they swing and leap and cuddle each other. All their movements are pure grace. 

A little further on, I come to the bottom of a hill. There are half a dozen stupas with more lions and four-legged animals with human faces looking a bit like Katherine Hepburn. As I’m standing in front of a beautiful rustic Buddha, an old man comes and prostrates himself before it, and I feel a prick because I’m standing there holding a camera. He moves on to the next, and prostrates himself again, then on to the next… in fact he prostrates himself in front of everything that could possibly require prostration, and then he walks towards me, and for a moment I think he’s going to prostrate himself before me as well. Then he points to my feet. I notice he has no shoes, and I think, oh shit, I should have taken mine off… then I realise he’s pointing to my sores and blisters. Relieved, I explain, “Mosquitoes and walking and falling over.” He nods sympathetically. I guess he is mute. He points to the camera and then to the Buddha. I say yes, and he stands watching me with a puzzled expression on his face as I fumble and grope and manoeuvre. It takes an age for the final click because I’m stoned. Eventually I manage it and he shakes my hand, points to the distance and to himself, and goes.

 

From the top of the hill there is a wonderful view of Mae Hong Son and the surrounding countryside. In the distance the mountains loom, their peaks hidden among the clouds. I notice that there are only three ugly buildings in Mae Hong Son — the police station, the bank and something else. All of them are square concrete boxes, and they are so out of place they could be flying saucers (except they are square).

 

In the evening there is a festival. An illuminated float is hauled along the road with much commotion, firecrackers, singing and playing of instruments. Periodically, a ‘rival team’ tries to halt its progress, but they are invariably overwhelmed and the float continues inexorably towards its destination. On the float is a huge construction of bamboo, leaves and 5-baht notes in the form of a gigantic silver pineapple.

I am baffled as to its significance so I follow along with the crowd. Sure enough, it’s not long before I am noticed. A beautiful girl gives me betel nut to chew, and then the musicians grab me and make me dance. They place me in the vanguard like a mascot and give me an exquisite, diminutive Burmese girl to dance with. I lollop around in the most ungraceful manner and everyone shouts “Geng maak!” (very skilful). Anyway, it’s all good fun and I’m doing my piece for the entertainment, so I don’t give a shit if I’m making an ass of myself. Nearby, another man is lurching and banging two sticks together rhythmically and rolling around monkey-fashion. We reach the temple and everyone crowds inside. The action seems to flag, so I wander off to watch the stars.

 

I’m thinking of walking from Mae Hong Son to Pai. On the map there is a dotted line indicating some kind of trail. I go to visit the only resident falang in town. He is Chester Gorman, an American anthropologist and archaeologist, here to excavate the Banyan Valley cave at Tham Sai. He advises against the trip. It’s the Golden Triangle, and the only people up there are police, opium traffickers and the Lisu tribespeople who grow the opium. If I meet the police, they’ll think I’m a drug trafficker. If I meet the traffickers, they’ll think I’m a narcotics agent. And if I meet the Lisu… well, there are hunting accidents. I say thanks for the advice. Chester is a nice fellow, but I sense he is a little possessive about ‘his territory’. 

 

I tell the people in the hotel I’m thinking of walking to Pai, and they introduce me to a short, stocky young man who has the same idea. He is a student and his name is Bom. It turns out the road was built by the Japanese during the war, and is quite a piece of engineering. But it hasn’t been used since the war, and it is rough and overgrown. So I go to the market and buy a machete to hack through the undergrowth.

 

 

From Mae Hong Son to Pai

 

Day One : Setting Out

With my newly found companion, Bom, I marched out of Mae Hong Son to the strains of “La Cucaracha” blasting out over the municipal PA system. We stopped a doisan (pickup) which took us to Ban Houei Pha, and from there we began to walk, following the old Japanese road through the jungle, mobbed by swarms of butterflies, examined by curious dragonflies. The trees were full of birds, beautiful long-tailed creatures which glided from branch to branch uttering mournful cries, and unseen birds that sang and warbled complex patterns of sound in perfect repetition.

 

Then the road began to climb steeply, winding its way through the mountains. It was already midday and the sun was beating down, but I wanted to reach Mae Suya by nightfall, and so we continued. Bom, however, like most Thais, was used to sleeping in the afternoons, and expressed this desire on numerous occasions during the climb. I had to wait for him to appear in the distance on the road behind me every twenty minutes or so. He obviously wasn’t used to walking. It seemed that I had assumed the role of the Kayah soldier. Now I was the White Rabbit.

 

By late afternoon we had descended into the valley. Bom tested my new machete, cutting himself a length of bamboo. It was a miserable failure — with much muttering and grunting, he hacked away until the bamboo splintered, and then broke it with his hands.

 

We reached Mae Suya as the sun was going down. Bom found us a house to stay in, and a chicken to eat. I had intended to sleep in a bamboo shelter in the rice fields, where I would have eaten my sticky rice and nuts, and enjoyed the stars. But the chicken was good, and so were the people, though not too healthy. We had arrived during a fever epidemic.

 

 

Day Two : Getting Lost

I was up at dawn, and with much shaking and bullying managed to rouse Bom from heavy slumber and drag him off into the cool morning mist. We walked down the valley. On either side the mountains rose almost sheer into wraithlike clouds. The trail was very muddy, and completely disappeared under water in places. I was very glad I had my bamboo staff. We crossed the valley and started up a steep elephant track. After several hours hard climbing, we descended once again and found ourselves in a village. It looked vaguely familiar. It was Mae Suya. I had taken the wrong trail and we had made an arduous circular tour of the valley. So much for the early start! We had to make our way through all the mud again, and this time the clouds had lifted and the sun had risen over the mountaintops. I was pissed off, although it was my fault — I had been leading. Bom, to his credit, was just mildly amused. We met some elephants on the way and tried unsuccessfully to hitch a ride. By noon we had reached a small stream in the forest where we stopped to bathe. It was exhilarating to splash around naked in the cold water, catching fish in my pubic hair, surrounded by butterflies cavorting in the sun. Bom was a little embarrassed. He bathed with his clothes on.

 

We continued through the jungle until we reached a river. The bridge had collapsed, and when I tried to wade it with my pack, I was almost swept off my feet by the current. We solved the problem by carrying the packs across separately, suspended from the bamboo pole across our shoulders. Even so, the water was almost up to my chest at the deepest point, and nearly up to Bom’s neck. The current was so swift that we could hardly keep our balance. Near the far side, where it was strongest, we slipped and stumbled as stones were sucked from beneath our feet, and loud cries issued from Bom as he momentarily lost his footing and submerged. We fell in a heap on the opposite bank. My pack was wet but most of the vulnerable articles were in plastic bags. Returning for Bom’s pack was more difficult. In fact we both lost control and floundered frantically towards the bank, emerging spluttering and drenched. Bom’s pack was heavier and more difficult to handle, but miraculously it got no wetter than mine.

 

From the river, I led the way up the wrong trail once again to a little shack, where we rested. Inside, there were only children and an imbecile, ragged and dirty, who stared at me as if I were from another planet. Probably they had never seen a falang before. It was a strange feeling.

 

We retraced our footsteps for a few kilometres and found the trail again, cunningly camouflaged with bushes and foliage. Soon we were climbing again. Bom began to puff and pant, and insisted on resting every few minutes. Eventually, I lost patience and surged on ahead, knowing that he would do his utmost not to lose me. I had the oranges and the matches. Sure enough, when I finally stopped to rest, he appeared after ten minutes looking very haggard. I asked him for the water. He had drunk it all, drained to the last drop. This time I was really annoyed. Here we were on the mountain with no water in sight, and the sun was beating down, and Bom had drunk the lot, and I was very thirsty. I was speechless. I stomped off up the mountain wondering why the hell I had brought this useless moron along with me. He was obviously going to be a burden.

 

Further along the trail, I heard the sound of water. There was a spring somewhere above. I waited impatiently for Bom to appear. He did so, after what seemed an interminable length of time — brandishing a full bottle of water and smiling broadly. We drank off the entire bottle between us and then I clambered up the rocks to the spring, where I refilled it to the brim.

 

The sun was sinking fast. Now we were on the descent. As the light was fading, we found a bamboo pipe leading down from a spring to the trail. We dropped our packs and I immediately began to hack away at dead wood with the machete. The blade fell out. Looking back, I saw that Bom had collapsed in a heap. “Look!” I shouted, pointing at the sun, “Het fai! Ao mai!” (Make fire! Get wood!). He staggered reluctantly to his feet. “Ao mai noi!” (Get small sticks!) I told him. The wood was damp and so were our matches. My lighter was full of water. I drenched the wick with Bom’s lighter fuel and managed to start a fire. It went out. Finally we solved the problem by lighting a candle beneath some bamboo tinder. We added kindling and blew our lungs inside out, and then added some chunks of dead wood. “Good!” I said. “Dee maak! Now to make some tea!” I took a candle and a section of bamboo and went to fetch water from the spring. When I returned, Bom was fast asleep.

 

I made tea. It was a long and complicated process involving the balancing of tin cups among the coals. It seemed an age before the water boiled; but it did, and the addition of a Twinings teabag produced three cups of delicious orange pekoe tea. As if by a miracle, Bom awoke just in time to drink a cup. The day’s work done, I smoked a joint, savoured the tea, and lay back in my sleeping bag. It was a beautiful night — stars, the fire and the trickling of water. After the tea, I drank more spring water and it tasted delicious. I could feel it cleaning out my body, purifying my blood. I fell asleep to Bom’s rhythmic snoring.

 

 

Day Three : Crossing rivers

The morning was cold. During the night I had moved several metres downhill; there had been no level space to sleep on. Bom was still snoring furiously. Ants had invaded our food supply, most of which was liberally soaked in river water anyway. We left them to their feast and went on down the mountain. In the valley, we met some Muhsur tribespeople. They told us it was only eight kilometres to the police post, neglecting to mention that a large river lay ahead. We continued through bamboo cathedrals flanked by enormous rocks, which stood impassively like unhewn dolmens beneath cliffs on either side. Then we were out in the open again and we came to the river. It was deep and fast-flowing. As we stood there debating what to do, a small boy appeared and led us a few metres up the river bank. From there the crossing was easy.

 

A kilometre further on, we came to another dead end. The water was far too deep to cross with packs. But a little way downriver there was a tree trunk spanning the torrent. Bom skipped across. I followed shakily, looked down at the rushing water below, and lost my nerve. I sat down on the log with a bump and slid the rest of the way inch by inch on my arse, while Bom waited on the river bank, splitting his sides with laughter.

 

I prayed there would be no more crossings like that, but it wasn’t long before we met the river again. This time, my heart sank. Even Bom looked desperate. He stepped in and immediately sank up to his waist. Downstream there was a submerged log. The water poured over it with frightening velocity but I thought we could perhaps use it to stop ourselves being swept down with the current. I clambered along near the bank, then stepped out into the swirl. Immediately, I was lifted off my feet as the water hit me, and reached out frantically for a branch to grab hold of. I lost my balance completely just as I managed to grasp a limb, and emerged soaked from head to foot.

 

We sat on the bank looking at the water in silence, smoking to calm our nerves. On the opposite bank, a diminutive Lisu man appeared, took off his trousers, rolled up his shirt and nonchalantly stepped into the water. We watched incredulously as he slowly waded into the river with no apparent difficulty. The water only came up to his waist. On reaching the bank he smiled, picked up my pack, placed it on his head and waded back. I followed him — where he stepped, the water was shallower. Even so, I managed to slip on a stone and fall headlong into the water again, only a few yards from the bank. He repeated the performance with Bom’s pack, and we thanked him profusely and gave him five baht.

 

We reached the police post at three o’clock. The police were away. They had gone to Mae Hong Son by motorbike. How had they crossed the river? They had carried the bike across. Minds blown, we could go no further. I forgot my idea of continuing to the Lisu village. My feet were in a terrible state and my morale was smitten. And anyway, they offered us food.

 

 

Day Four : Lisu village

After a delicious breakfast and hot coffee, we set out for the Lisu village. It was difficult at first for me because of the condition of my feet. Walking downhill was excruciating because the backs of my shoes rubbed against the open sores at every step. However, walking uphill was much better. With a burst of super energy I took the footpaths which led straight up the mountain, while Bom followed the road. After a while, I waited for him at a lung phak (resting place) on the side of the mountain. There was no sign of him so I continued up the footpath. When I reached the road again, I sat and waited half an hour more. Still there was no Bom to be seen. Once again, he had the water. All I had were his wretched cigarettes. I yodelled and halloaed — no answer. So I gave up and went on up the road. Rounding a bend, I found Bom sitting nonchalantly at the roadside talking to a wizened little Lisu man. The Lisu lived near Ban Pek and had taken Bom to all the short cuts, some of which I had missed.

 

We continued together, taking steep paths up the mountainside, clambering up rocky gullies until we reached the ridge. From here there was an incredible view. Looking back, we could see the road winding tenuously into the distance; before us lay the Lisu village, and beyond, the valley of Pai.

 

The descent, once again, was painful. I limped into the village behind Bom. It was beautifully situated halfway down the mountain, cloistered in high bushes of splendid golden flowers. We decided to stay.

 

The Lisu are renowned hunters, and also opium-growers. They are a fine-featured people of varying appearance. Some were obviously of Mongolian origin, the narrow eyes and taut features  accentuated by the hair drawn back into a topknot. Others, like the man we stayed with, had less severe features, almond-shaped eyes and fine wavy hair. The women were resplendent in their striped blue, red, white and green dress.

 

Everyone seemed a bit apprehensive about the strange falang, so I went through the flute ritual and soon a crowd gathered. The quickest way to make friends in a hill village, especially when you don’t speak their language, is to play music to the kids. It shows you are not as scary as you look.

 

The house we stayed in was none too clean, and the walls and ceiling were encrusted with soot from the fire. Bom and I were seated on a raised platform, like guests of honour, while the family sat around like an audience. We started a tentative conversation about opium, but it was evident that the topic was not a popular one. After all, I could have been a narcotics agent. They gave us a good meal of brown rice and vegetables. It would have been most enjoyable had it not been for the dense smoke which filled the house. Finally we bedded down to the grunting of pigs and the whining of puppies below.

 

 

Day Five : Reaching Pai

I emerged into the cold morning light to see the clouds spread across the valley below, like a silver lake amongst fairy mountains. I tried taking photos but everyone ran away — and then we noticed we were covered with tiny spots of blood. We were being eaten alive by tiny flies, gnats perhaps, which Bom called ‘lin’. It was time to leave.

 

Bom was very amused at my constant execrations as I cursed my way down the mountain, heels skinned, in agony. The straps on my pack kept coming loose and I was getting really mad. Fortunately we met two men with oxcarts and they carried our packs for a while. Walking with nothing to carry was really enjoyable. After an hour or so, they stopped to graze the oxen. They said it would take two or three hours so reluctantly we resumed our burden and continued on our way.

 

Reaching the valley, we stopped to buy a papaya for half a baht. It wasn’t ripe but it was good. It tasted like raw carrot. Then we made our way though several valleys until we reached the river. The crossing was not too difficult this time as I had figured out the most scientific use of the bamboo staff, leaning it into the current, making myself a tripod. The next crossing, though shallow, proved to be the final blow to my poor feet. They slipped and slithered over the rocks, and the shoes bit into the sores.

 

Now the pain was becoming unbearable so I stopped for a joint. As I sat there smoking, a smart young man came along on a motorcycle. He said it was only a few more kilometres to Pai, and offered to take our packs. We gladly gave them to him and trudged on for another four kilometres. Then our saviour appeared again on his bike and carried the two of us on his luggage rack the rest of the way along the bumpy track into town. It was hard on the balls but good for the feet.

 

Soon I was sitting outside a little hotel in Pai, feet coated in penicillin ointment, drinking the last bottle of Vitamilk in town. It was wonderfully quiet because there were no vehicles. The next day, I would get a lift to Chiengmai in the only taxi in town. I gave Bom the machete. He had decided to stay a few more days in Pai. Later, I met him again in Chiengmai. His short stay in Pai had not been without incident. He had been arrested for carrying a weapon, on suspicion of being a communist.