Chapter 5 -- Chiang Mai

I board the overnight train to Chiang Mai genuinely excited at the prospect of falling asleep on a soft flat bed while caressed by the gentle rocking motion of the wheels passing over the rails. Although I am relegated to the smaller upper bunk, the conditions are quite comfortable except for the occasional bouts of loud hocking by some of my fellow passengers. Before becoming horizontal, I befriend a Thai student in the opposite bunk who plays with a laptop computer for most of the trip. He shows me photos from his own travel around Thailand and asks, somewhat incredulously, why I would spend so much time exploring his country. I tell him that Thailand is a beautiful and interesting place but he is nonplussed by my enthusiasm. He is desperate to visit unfamiliar territory in the West but frustrated that money and his citizenship make this option problematic. I understand the longing and urge him to use his upcoming computer science degree to become the next great technology innovator. Articulating a vision for economic liberation, I suggest that he could create new products and aspire to be the Thai version of Bill Gates. He just stares at me with an incredulous expression which suggests that my motivational speech and Horatio Alger story have not persuaded him that such a future is even remotely within the realm of possibility.

Upon arrival in Chiang Mai the next morning, I commence two key tasks -- first, identifying the right massage school at which to study, and second, finding suitable accommodations for my extended stay. Armed with internet research and my guidebook, I make site visits to the two top schools on my list. Both schools cater to plenty of French travelers so I strike up a conversation in this fading romance language with several current students and get the lowdown on the teachers and curriculum. Despite my failure to practice over the years, I am thrilled when three French women guess my home country as Holland based on the accent and are shocked to learn of my American heritage. It feels like a small victory. After comparison shopping, I ultimately prefer the hybrid East-West philosophy and mellow approach offered at the Sunshine Massage School and sign up for a two-week basic Thai massage class for the low price of 7,200 Baht (~$220).

I check into fairly low-budget accommodations for the first night, quickly realize that it is a bit too basic to serve as my home away from home, and undertake a comprehensive survey of more than one dozen guesthouses to find the best combination of atmosphere, price and quality. At each place, I inspect rooms and attempt to negotiate discounts for a 2+ week stay. Since the high season for tourism has not yet arrived, proprietors are typically willing to agree to reduce their "rack rates" by 10-15%. As I ply the streets weighing the pros and cons of various options, a hotel not listed in any book or site appears to my right. It almost escapes my attention because the sign is small and the frontage looks more like a series of shopfronts. On a whim, I go inside and find large rooms with balconies, mini-fridges, TVs, writing desks, private baths and separate sitting areas. The manager, a friendly Thai woman in her mid-30s named Nuch, promises free coffee, bottled water, cleaning of the room every third day, and as much fruit as I can eat. She is also willing to accept 350 Baht/night ($11) given the length of my stay. Although the absence of a backpacker scene is worrysome, I am encouraged by her personal energy, the comfort of the room, and the decently playable guitar sitting in the entryway. After a bout of equivocation, I call her to lock in our arrangement and promise to begin my residence in three days.

The next morning I check out of my temporary guesthouse. When the owner asks if I am going to Chiang Rai (a city to the north), I can only shrug and imply assent. It would be unfathomable to tell her that I am actually about to check into the 5-star Mandarin Oriental resort to spend a weekend dwelling in obscene luxury with my very close friend and former college roommate. Lugging my bags to the nearest cluster of tuk-tuk taxis, I negotiate for a ride to the gates of this secluded compound. Twenty minutes later we roll into the outer grounds and are met by an army of friendly security and reception staff. I tumble out of this low-tech motorized rickshaw with my two backpacks and hope that I will not be summarily turned away for appearing so obviously out of place. Luckily, the staff summons an electric golf cart to silently transport me to the striking reception hall. I approach the front desk trying not to look like a gate crashing backpacker. They run my name through the computer and, after apologizing for the inconvenience, inform me that the room Michael reserved is not yet ready so they will move my gear to a temporary back-up room for the next few hours. My personal driver ferries me to an incredibly spacious suite in one of the colonial buildings. Armed with Michael's advanced blessing to avail myself of any service at his expense, I immediately call the spa and reserve a time for the "men's facial".

Although I've witnessed many impressive sights in my travels, this resort proves absolutely bewildering. Covering more than 60 acres, this self-contained city is centered around a series of recently built ornate structures inspired by the architecture of the Lanna Kingdom, an empire of city-states that peaked in the mid-15th century and spanned northern Thailand, Burma and Laos. Buildings are adorned with golden stupas, carved wood detailing, and fantastic glass mosaics. Perhaps the crown jewel is a Burmese palace replica which serves as the spa. I meander the sprawling property with my mouth open in awe of the spectacular architecture which makes this place look and feel like many of the historical sites I've visited in southeast asia. Between the statutes, teak mansions, stone entryways, and abundant antiques, the hotel is more akin to a museum. Though I ponder the unfairness of restricting entry to all but the rich and famous who pay to be guests, any feelings of guilt quickly give way to my sense of wonder and appreciation. I enter the spa and spend the next 90 minutes in my own private treatment suite being pampered, scrubbed and rubbed by a professional masseuse.

By the time I'm done, Michael has arrived and checked into our actual 950 square foot suite in a colonial mansion with a giant bedroom, a living room, two bathrooms (one of which is simply massive and has an inlaid stone floor), and a private outdoor terrace. Although Michael is more accustomed to such comforts, the confluence of this place and our reunion causes him to jump for joy. Over the next two days we indulge in fine dining, relax by the pool, make use of the gym, and catch up on recent life experiences. Michael and I first met in 1987 while standing in the meal line at the "6-day advanced course", a personal growth boot camp offered by Werner Erhard only a few years before the eruption of a personal scandal which forced him to sell the company (soon-to-be-named Landmark Education) to its employees and flee the country. A few weeks after the course, we both entered our first year as undergraduates at Columbia University and within another two years had joined the same fraternity and become roommates. Since those halcyon days we have remained close confidantes. He is one of my biggest fans, always providing deeply moving affirmations, helping to process difficult experiences, and urging me to pursue my dreams. So it is a real treat for us to share a small part of my trip and engage in some powerful emotional bonding.

At my urging, Michael agrees to break out of the luxury bubble for an exploration of nearby sights. We rent motorbikes and cruise into the nearby hills to pay our respects to the inspiring gold chedis at Wat Doi Suthep. This temple complex leaves both of us speechless as we circle the central spire, admire the jewels and glittering Buddhas, and pray together for the betterment of all humankind. We approach an older monk who blesses us with prayers, ties a piece of string onto our wrists, and sprinkles holy water on our heads. Our bracelets will remain strapped on for weeks as a reminder of this day. At one altar I kneel and shake a can filled with wooden fortune telling sticks until one pops out and lands on the marble floor. It points me to fortune #24 which reads as follows

Getting this number means you will succeed in what you have done,
it rather takes more time to fulfill, you ought to be cool hearted.
Your fortune will occur soon, but your lover is uncertain.
As for the absent relations you will meet them in the near future.

With this iron-clad promise of success in my travels and a unknown lover waiting in the wings, I am buouyed by the notion that this exciting future will be shaped by my personal initiative and divine providence. Michael agrees with this assessment, says that my path will be fruitful, and urges me to stay the course.

The rest of the afternoon consists of shopping for jade jewelry at a nearby "factory", hiking to some impressive waterfalls in a national park, and then returning to the city for dinner, a glorious massage at a swank spa, and a roundup of local nightlife. At the second bar we visit, the host offers to provide girls who can keep us company. Michael accepts on our behalf and soon two young attractive Thai women are seated at the table and have ordered drinks on our tab. Neither speaks English, so we focus on simple topics (like figuring out our respective ages -- the girls claim to be 19 and 25) and use the digital camera to take photos and collectively admire the display. The woman to my right ("Oh") presses her knee into my thigh throughout our time together. Within an hour, we end the experiment and pay our tab (which includes approximately $10 for the companionship). The girls look somewhat expectant, wondering if they will be invited back to our hotel, but the tension dissolves when Michael and I bow, thank them for their time, and leave alone. At our final stop, Michael befriends the bar owner and insists that I sing a few songs accompanied by the keyboard player. I resist for several minutes before giving in to the pleadings of my longtime friend and proceed to belt out Billy Joel's "Just The Way You Are" and the world famous "Hotel California". After these songs and a few more drinks, we grab a tuk-tuk back to the sanctuary of the Mandarin Oriental.

I feel refreshed, calm, and balanced when Michael leaves the next day. Although my new accommodations at the Lamphun House are far less plush, I settle in and actually unpack my entire bag for the first time since leaving San Francisco. With my clothing now hanging in a proper closet and my books arranged on a shelf, I am ready to spend the next two weeks living in this city and having a purpose. This purpose begins the next morning at the Sunshine Massage School where I receive 60 hours of classroom training over 10 days in the ancient craft of Thai Massage.

The course proves both rewarding and challenging. There are 8 other students -- four French, two English, one Australian and one Canadian. All but two (including myself) are women, a fact which is not displeasing to me. My rusty French gets a workout as I struggle to recall the basic nouns, verbs and idiomatic expressions which used to be at my disposal in the days (circa 1990) when I worked as a singing waiter at the Hollywood Savoy restaurant in Paris. Though almost everyone in the class speaks both French and English, the group progressively splits into language-based factions. Even with this linguistic divide, the communal dynamic is positive and feels increasingly cohesive as the two weeks progress.

In class we learn how to stretch the recipient into yoga-like poses and then knead, pull, thumb, palm and pound the appropriate muscles. Some of the positions are extreme, like ones where I sling the client over my back or raise their torso by slipping my toes underneath their shoulder blades. Other poses are soothing and quite blissful. The techniques prove tricky and I discover the fine line dividing a good stretch and therapeutic touch from damaging and painful prodding. The class is led by Yan, an early 30s Thai man with a glowing smile, a very powerful touch, and a willingness to make up his own rules rather than just play by the book. In addition to his lessons about energy lines and pressure points, Yan teaches me about many aspects of Thai culture. For example, he explains that people who prefer to date Thais and other Asians are said to like "sticky rice" while those who favor Westerners have a taste for "potato". He also gives me some insights into the local gay community and suggests that, unlike in America, Thais do not have a strong cultural aversion to homosexuality. These talks are quite educational and I learn much from Yan that has nothing to do with massage.

Within the confines of a light, airy practice room, we drill techniques, positions, and pressure points with an emphasis on maximizing leverage and minimizing the strain on the masseuse. Every morning begins with some chanting and a few minutes of meditation before moving onto the next lesson. Half the time is spent receiving, the other half giving. My body ends up feeling quite mushy after many days of being repeatedly pummeled. My own technique is a bit crude and lacks the sophistication and intuitiveness of experienced practitioners. Isabel, the lovely French woman who receives my final massage (a 2.5 hour "test" conducted without access to written materials), tells me that my hand, face and foot massages are "really good". She conspicuously avoids mentioning my labored efforts on her back, legs, arms, hips, shoulders and stomach. Frustrated that I am not a natural master, I grapple with this perceived shortcoming and realize that developing true proficiency will require a good deal of practice. I pledge to realize my potential someday.

To my delight, I rapidly settle into the semblance of a daily routine. I ride a borrowed bicycle around town, find my neighborhood laundry, start jogging with the locals at an outdoor sports stadium, select a favorite internet cafe (stocked with rare iMacs) and learn which kind of sweets are worth buying. It feels good to connect with this place in a more substantial and meaningful way, to have some structure to my days, and to become increasingly familiar with the rhythms of the city. My guesthouse becomes a true home. Nuch keeps offering me food and becomes visibly upset if I don't take fruit from the communal bowl. I frequently play her guitar and sit on the front deck singing to the massage ladies who work next door. With a bit of investigation, I discover that a group of young Thais sleeping in several ground floor rooms (many of whom spend all day playing computer games) are extended family members. Nuch keeps tabs on my daily whereabouts (always asking "where are you going") in a way that feels very familial and fondly protective.

Every Sunday a giant street market takes over the neighborhood around my hotel. The roads are packed with stalls, vendors, swarms of people, and giant stages hosting elaborate dance performances in front of a giant portrait of the King. I stroll through this market on three different Sundays sampling a wide array of tasty noshes and appreciating the work of local artists. One evening at approximately 6pm, I pay a vendor for a glass of fresh strawberry juice. Before he can hand over the drink, a network of loudspeakers broadcasts a song which wafts over the crowd like some kind of paralyzing gas. Every single person on this packed street stops moving, stands at attention, and gazes into the air. The immobilizing effect ends at the moment this ceremonial tune, which turns out to be the national anthem, ceases. My vendor thaws from his frozen state and passes me a glass of juice which, unfortunately, is too highly sweetened for my taste.

My social network expands with the arrival of Annie Lalla whom I previously met in a Bangkok guesthouse. Since that encounter, she and her boyfriend have decided to end their relationship and continue their journeys separately. Annie moves into the other room at my guesthouse and we spend much time talking about relationships, creativity, the search for true meaning, and our passionate need to lead unconventional lives. We reminsce about our experiences with Landmark Education (her whole family has taken the courses) and Burning Man. One memorable night we wander the old city and are inexorably drawn to a brilliantly illuminated temple complex where we connect with the intrinsic spirituality of statutes while simultaneously recognizing the impermanence of all things.

The next day we venture south on a motorcycle to visit an Elephant Conservation Center and appreciate these creatures in a non-exploitative setting. While driving our little 110cc scooter down a major highway, I recall my recently deceased grandfather's admonition to avoid being trampled by an elephant while traveling through Asia. Although he had never traveled to this region, his fearful premonition causes me to worry that something dangerous may lie ahead. To honor his memory (and out of self-preservation), I remind myself to be extremely careful when these massive animals approach. The Conservation Center turns out to be a real treat -- a non-profit organization dedicated to protecting Asian Elephants, preserving the traditional knowledge of mahout training, converting elephant dung into paper, and allowing tourists to learn more about the history of elephants in Thailand.

We watch a show in which elephants engage in choreographed dances, stack large logs with ease, play musical instruments, and paint representations of flowers by holding the brush in their trunks. This last activity is quite shocking. Apparently, Elephants possess artistic vision and naturally draw using pebbles and sticks. When trained to use a paint brush, they create actual works of art which appear to be the product of a human artist. The onsite gallery contains paintings made by elephants depicting the form of an elephant. Knowing that they are capable of abstract thought forces me to reassess my entire understanding of these remarkable creatures. After the show, Annie and I approach several fine specimens and pose for some photos while offering stalks of sugar cane to feed their voracious appetites (each adult consumes around 150 kg/330 lbs of food per day). Then we decide to ante up for a ride and mount a beautiful adult for a jaunt through the forest under the supervision of a trained mahout. We watch the scenery pass by from our elevated vantage point and observe that the creature is remarkably adept at making a barely perceptible impact on the underbrush despite its massive weight. I leave with a newfound appreciation for these majestic pachyderms and pray for the survival of their increasingly neglected creative spirits.

For better or worse, I am a lifelong fan of the Boston Red Sox and painfully follow the ups and downs of the team every year. I cried when the team blew a seemingly insurmountable lead against the Mets in the 1986 world series, watched in horror as they gave up a game 7 lead against the Yankees in the 2003 AL Championship Series, and then was propelled into a state of blissful shock when they went on a 7-game winning streak in 2004 to capture their first world series title in 86 years. Anxious to track their progress in the playoffs this year, I manage to watch two games against the Cleveland Indians on the television in our spacious cocoon at the Mandarin Oriental. Though Michael is a devout Yankees fan, he offers moral support even as I watch the Sox get blown out and then tries to help my mood by suggesting we move onto other activities.

When the Red Sox reach the World Series, I am compelled to witness this event and end up sitting at the "U.N. Irish Pub" watching Game 2 in an empty bar with only an Australian couple to keep me company. They don't really understand the rules of baseball but the guy is a sports fanatic and wants to learn. While I bite my nails hoping that the Sox can maintain a slim lead, he teaches me about the rules of Cricket. It is the first time I actually comprehend how that game is played. The Sox win this game, and the next time I return (for game 3) the room is half-filled with some American college students rooting for Colorado and an older guy who identifies himself as a Sox fan, glumly claims to know how the game turns out and adds "the Red Sox can be a really frustrating team sometimes". At this point, the Sox are leading 10-5 and it is the 9th inning. Assuming that the man is preparing me for the worst, I brace for an epic collapse that will forever be seared onto my psyche as a painful sports memory. But the collapse never comes and the Sox hold on to win. I breathe a sigh of relief and shoot the guy a dirty look. "I never said who was going to win" he says with a smirk. The next day the Sox sweep their second world series in four years and I take a few moments to imagine the mayhem erupting in New England. But it feels so far away from Chiang Mai that I am only able to bask in the victory glow for a couple of hours before the intoxicating effect diminishes.

More interesting celebrations occur outside the realm of sports. My nights are filled with social activities including my massage classmates, Annie and Michelle (a British woman working for an NGO in Thailand and learning Burmese in Chiang Mai). Practically every evening there is a round of dinner and drinks with some combination of people. At the end of my first week the entire posse goes out dancing at a club called the "Warm Up" where we groove and sway for hours with throngs of young Thais. The DJ plays a mix of electronic and hip hop, with all songs being set to the exact same number of beats per minute (so our dancing tempo remains entirely constant throughout). As is typical in Thai clubs, the women dance with each other while guys either observe from a distance or slowly and self-consciously sway side-to-side. By contrast, the men in our foreigner posse (that means me) dance with reckless abandon and enthusiasm. We observe that only people of the same sex appear to be touching each other, which leads one massage student to wonder whether we've entered a gay club. But this behavior is typical in a culture where men often hold hands but would never be seen in public with their arm around a woman's waist. Western male/female couples engaging in public displays of affection cross the line of propriety, although some younger Thais in big cities are starting to emulate Western norms in this respect (influenced by imported movies and television). Even so, none of the locals in this club appear ready to cross this line with each other.

One young Thai woman approaches and starts a "girls gone wild" sequence with several of the western women. I sneak into the mix and break a cultural barrier by dancing closely to see if she will blink. She holds her ground and gyrates with me for awhile before breaking into a laughing fit with her friends. We pose for a photo to mark the occasion. Other Thais repeatedly offer us entire glasses of alcohol, insisting that we drink as much as possible. Their forceful generosity takes everyone by surprise ("this would never happen at home" remarks one English woman). We stay until the club kicks everyone out onto the street, proud that we have been able to keep pace with the younger generation.

Another night, Annie and I go out with Nuch (our guesthouse guardian) and her friends to a club called "Hot Shots" where dance acts perform on a large stage to popular Thai and Western songs. We get a table in the front and order several bottles of liquor and some mixers. These bottles are all brought to our table so that we can make and refresh the drinks ourselves. Annie and I dance the night away while Nuch keeps refilling my glass with whisky and soda everytime my attention shifts elsewhere, leading to the mistaken belief that I have barely consumed any alcohol. By the time our night ends, I realize that the cumulative toll of these refills has been substantial. Despite being quite buzzed, I carefully drive the motorbike back to our hotel without incident.

The exploration of my neighborhood leads to a few interesting discoveries. Around the corner, on a sidestreet in the middle of the formerly walled old city, lies a strip of bars and restaurants aggressively projecting a relaxed hangout vibe. These places incorporate plenty of blacklight art and soft mood lighting (unlike most establishments which rely solely on overhead fluorescent tubes and plastic tables for ambiance), and lure customers with hand painted signs advertising an array of liquor drinks available at prices ranging from $1.50-3. Based on limited experience, I can vouch for the 50 Baht ($1.50) mojito being a good choice. Many bars have a reggae music theme and host live bands cranking out Bob Marley covers. Often these bands are very close to each other, which produces a strangely discordant audio mix -- like putting on a pair of headphones and realizing that different tracks are playing into the left and right ears.

One night I walk down this stretch and witness a heart-warming sight -- a young Thai guy stands in the middle of the "Babylon Bar" twirling a lit fire staff. Although his moves are quite basic, his body rigid and still, and his face expressionless, I am filled with joy at actually having found rotating fire. To date on the trip, my ability to practice this passionate hobby had been limited to spinning the glowing orbs brought from home with no opportunities to drench my kevlar wicks in fuel. So I joyfully return to this spot a few nights later with Annie and Rachel (from massage class) in tow and my poi stuffed into a shoulder bag. I find the right person behind the bar who agrees to provide me with fuel and let me spin.

While sitting with my friends and waiting for the appropriate fire moment to arrive, I take out my new flowtoys lights and twirl them for a few minutes. Since the locals all notice these glowing sticks and are curious about their construction, I pass them around so that everyone can examine them at close range. At this point, a small boy (probably around 8-10 years old) enters the bar and is drawn directly to the strobing lights in my hands. Breaking free from the hypnotic effect, he pleads to play with them. I let him take a turn with a single light and watch as he gleefully spins it around his head.

A band composed of four mid-20s Thai guys then mounts the stage. The lead singer sports a vintage Afro (quite a trick given Thai hair) and possesses a remarkable ability to mimic the deep, throaty quality of Bob Marley's voice. Despite this vocal richness, the sounds from his mouth are rough phonetic approximations rather than comprehensible English words. Being very familiar with most of the songs, I amuse myself trying to reconcile his soulful wailing with the actual lyrics.

The fire performance area is a relatively small open space in front of the stage with just enough width and depth to accommodate most of my long moves but requiring constant attention to hazards -- low roofs, tree branches and the nearby band members. As I warm up, dip my wicks in a plastic bucket of smelly "Na Mon Khat" (kerosene), and spin out (a practice locals don't seem to follow), my mind drifts back to Burning Man and my last burn in front of the Man with the wonderful cast of performers in the Solar Flare conclave I helped to coordinate. Taking a deep breath, I feel a wave of calm loving energy rolling through my body and know it is time to begin. I walk over to my friends at the front table, dangle my monkeyfists above a single candle, and watch the flame slowly ignite the kerosene. At that moment, the band starts playing "Rivers of Babylon" -- a classic tune off the famous "The Harder they Come" soundtrack album. Taken from a Biblical Psalm, the first verse is:

By the Rivers of Babylon
Where we sat down
And there we wept
And we remembered Zion

I mouth the actual words (not those recited by the lead singer) while commencing with a series of wallplane weaves. I soon move into a polyrhythmic thread-the-needle and split-direction hipreel combo, then flip to an Angel followed by a big open butterfly. I transition to my not-quite-patented asymetric thread-the-needle sequence segueing to an asymetric anti-gravity wallplane weave. Then I wrap up the remaining long poi and begin the buzzsaw, run it through the fountain, turn it horizontal, and start a 2-beat/4-beat corkscrew sequence while alternating between turning my body in spin and anti-spin rotations. After a few spiral wraps, a behind-the-back weave, and a flirtation with atomics, I settle into spin and anti-spin flowers before returning to my favorite wallplane weaves accented with isolations, an oscillating tempo, and polyrhythmic dissonance.

The band transitions to another song ("Don't worry, Be Happy") and I play with under-the-leg stalls, leg wraps, and some isolation/separation moves. Now dancing with exuberance and letting go of lingering worry, I feel negative emotional forces start to dissipate. I form a horizontal buzzsaw, walk over to my friends and the small boy, and bring the fire very close to their faces. The boy's eyes open wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. Borrowing a move from Dave, I stick out my tongue and pretend to lick the fire. Then I retreat and, observing my flames becoming wispy, return to another flower combo with extra rotational force to snuff the fire into oblivion. As my poi extinguish themselves, I look around and notice the small crowd in rapt attention. After a smattering of applause, I sit down with my crew to relax as sweat drips down my face. I am energized and thoroughly self-expressed. The small boy looks in awe and immediately asks to play with the fire poi, a request I firmly decline.

Several nights later, I return to the Babylon Bar with the entire crew from my Thai massage class in tow. The bar staff are very welcoming, again providing fuel and offering me free drinks for the entire evening. I spin for a crowd of about 30, including my massage posse, and feel relatively relaxed and confident with most of my moves. I dance with passion, try to remember to smile, and keep most of the poi beats in sync with the music. Despite the dense and crowded space, I take a risk and successfully execute a few vertical tosses -- a trick which always proves quite gratifying. The feedback from my massage friends is quite overwhelming. Most had never seen fire before and are quite blown away. I graciously acknowledge the compliments and explain that my community at home is filled with spinners possessing skills superior to my own. But the acknowledgement feels good. They have seen another side of me.

A few other events of note occur during my stay. First, it comes to my attention that legislation I drafted and negotiated before leaving California receives the Governor's signature and thereby becomes law. This welcome development provides some professional gratification and makes me feel that all my time and effort devoted to passing this bill was not in vain. Second, I spend a day shopping for new prescription glasses. After several hours of trying on practically every pair in the shop, I opt for a frameless model and ultimately decide that this new look is a step forward in my personal aesthetic. Third, I use the television in my room to compare the news coverage provided by five different networks (Australian Broadcasting, BBC World, CNN, Bloomberg and Al Jazeera) and decide the highest quality, most in-depth, and least slanted coverage is provided by Al Jazeera. This is a surprise, to say the least, since I had assumed that Al Jazeera would be tainted by a strongly pro-Islamic/anti-Western bias. Instead, I find that their coverage consistently examines developments and issues thoroughly and from the perspective of average people rather than power elites. By contrast, CNN looks like zero carb and substance-free infotainment.

Near the end of my stay, I take off on a motorbike to visit an internationally-recognized and critically acclaimed artist named Suwan who lives in a bamboo tree house about 30 minutes outside of Chiang Mai. Referred by our mutual friend Kob, I work through some mangled driving directions to eventually find the rural treehouse which serves as his primary residence. After living in Europe and the US for over 30 years, Suwan has returned to Thailand to cast aside the trappings of convention in favor of a simple lifestyle. He is building his own dwelling out of natural bamboo grown on the property, forages for mushrooms, cooks simple meals on a small stove, rides his bicycle 2 hours to Chiang Mai to see friends, occasionally teaches Thai massage, and continues to work on new art projects. From the top floor of his bamboo palace-in-the-making, I sip coffee and admire the peaceful scenery in this pastoral area. We talk about art, politics, religion, and dissect a number of problems with both Thai and Western culture. It feels totally refreshing and exhilarating, and I leave in complete admiration of his decision to opt-out of the typical rat race in favor of this basic but almost utopian existence.

My final days before leaving for Chiang Rai are spent suffering from a nasty intestinal infection which forces me to stay close to the hotel and prevents any eating for 48 hours. The bout makes me fear for the very integrity of my digestive system and I start dreaming about the ability to eat solid food. But all things eventually pass and my normal rhythms return once the antibiotics begin to neutralize the infection. Even so, I check out of the guesthouse weakly dragging packed bags and hoping for the best during an upcoming bus ride. Nuch's friend Coke graciously offers to drive me to the bus station (at no charge) and refuses to leave me until he is satisfied that I have purchased the correct ticket. This is a typical example of the kind of generosity I routinely experience from Thai people throughout my journey.

As my bus pulls out of Chiang Mai, I take my first bite of food in more than two days -- a clump of unflavored sticky rice. It feels very good to finally eat something and know that it is likely to remain in my body for awhile. My next stop is Chiang Rai where I expect to be immersed in a physical and emotional healing space. It seems like the right time for this change to occur.