Chapter 6 -- Chiang Rai and Nan Province

The bus ride from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai occurs at the tail end of my recovery from a bout of intestinal nastiness which laid me out for two solid days holed up in my hotel room reading books and trying to consume sufficient fluids. When I finally arrive in Chiang Rai, I have not eaten more than a few bites of rice in the past 38 hours. At the station, a 9-year old girl approaches and asks in perfect English if I am Matthew. Lamthan (pronounced "Lam-tan") is the daughter of the woman who is about to host me for a week-long homestay. She has been sent as a scout to collect me and wait for her mother to pull up in the family car. In less than a minute, the vehicle arrives and I meet Kade, an attractive Thai woman in her late 30s who will be my teacher, guide and host for the week. She smiles and seems genuinely pleased to meet me after months of communicating exclusively by email.

My homestay with Kade (also known as "P'Kade") focuses on grounding the body and mind. The physical dimension takes the form of relatively gentle daily yoga while the mental element involves an exploration of my personality as understood through study of the Enneagram. Kade is a well-known published author of many yoga books, an accomplished naturalist and bird watcher, and a certified Enneagram teacher. She abandoned a fast-paced lifestyle in Bangkok to settle in a more peaceful area, focus on individual students and create a healthy and nurturing environment for her daughter. In person she emanates a calm, self-possessed aura and is clearly a healer dedicated to the well-being of others.

Her house is situated about 20 minutes from the city amidst a compound of buildings which comprise the Mirror Art Foundation. Although Kade does not work for the Foundation, her husband (who lives in Bangkok) is the founder and executive director so she is part of the organizational community. The Foundation is dedicated to serving indigenous Hill Tribes in the surrounding areas by promoting sustainable economic development, improvements in public health, and gaining political recognition for Tribal members. The organization teaches English, multimedia production and computer skills. It's an inspiring endeavor which draws a regular flow of foreign volunteers who traipse around the grounds and assist with various projects. In just two months time, my stint with the Thailand circus will bring me back to this exact spot for a partnership with Mirror Art. But this future is unknown to me during my stay with Kade.

I soon recover from my illness and am ready to explore the area. Since Kade's home is somewhat removed from Chiang Rai, I rely on her to drive me around in order to visit various sights. Our second night together, she takes me to a fashion show organized by a local designer named "Pimpa" who has been studying in Paris and boasts a name which has unfortunate English overtones. Told that this is the first major fashion show in the history of Chiang Rai, I savor the opportunity to witness such a momentous event. We arrive at a fancy hotel and enter a function room fitted with a runway and stage lights for the occasion. The room is filled with local VIPs and foreigners and there is an air of excitement as a bevy of teenaged models strut up and down the platform displaying sparkling accessories, floral prints, capri pants, and revealing items which show some serious skin. Older well-dressed women sit in the front row watching in both admiration and surprise at the spiked heels, sexy dresses and low necklines. I am thrilled to be observing the entire scene and keep giggling to myself at the strange juxtaposition of traditional Thai culture and cutting-edge French fashion.

The next day we begin with a 2-hour yoga practice, talk about our lives over breakfast, and spend the afternoon diving into the Enneagram. The Enneagram typology was first developed in the early 20th century and refined into its modern form during the 1970s. The system includes nine basic personality classifications, each with six possible variants, leading to 54 distinct subtypes. My own familiarity with the Enneagram is comes from conversations with friends at home and reading a excellent reference book brought from home. When we first start our conversations, I explain that my own study persuades me that I am a type 3 (a.k.a. "the Achiever") which means that my behavior is often motivated by the desperate need for accomplishment, external validation and the aura of success. Despite my insistence and near-certainty, Kade urges me to take a step back and asks me to answer a series of questions worded in somewhat mangled English. I do my best to understand the intent of these queries and provide honest responses. After some back-and-forth about my tendencies, Kade suggests that I am probably a type 7 (a.k.a. "the Enthusiast"). This observation takes me by surprise and I fight it for a day or two before finally realizing that she is correct.

In contrast to the achievement and status orientation of the Type 3, the type 7 is addicted to seeking new and interesting forms of stimulation. This type deeply values freedom, is scared of missing out on worthwhile experiences, must remain occupied at all times, and does whatever possible to avoid experiencing pain. According to my reference book, the Type 7 can be understood as encompassing the following strengths and weaknesses:

STRENGTHS -- They approach life with curiosity, optimism, and a sense of adventure...they are bold and vivacious, pursuing what they want in life with a cheerful determination. They have a quality best described by the Yiddish word chutzpah -- a kind of brash nerviness...their thinking is anticipatory: they foresee events and generate ideas on the fly, favoring activities that stimulate their minds -- which in turn generate more things to do and think about...their minds move rapidly from one idea to the next, making them gifted at brainstorming and synthesizing information...Perhaps Type Seven's greatest gift is the ability to maintain a positive outlook and sense of abundance. When this outlook is tempered by realism and a willingness to deal with difficult feelings, Sevens are able to generate an infectious enthusiasm for whatever situation is at hand. Far from timid, they live fully and encourage others to do the same. Further, their willingness to explore and to be open to new experiences can lead them to be well rounded and knowledgeable. They truly make the world their home and enjoy sharing with others the riches they find on their journeys.

WEAKNESSES -- Ironically, sevens' wide-ranging curiosity and ability to learn quickly can also create problems for them. Because they are able to pick up many different skills with relative ease, it becomes more difficult for them to decide what to do with themselves...they try to keep their minds busy all of the time. As long as they can keep their minds occupied, especially with projects and positive ideas for the future, they can, to some extent, keep anxiety and negative feelings out of their conscious awareness. Likewise, since their thinking is stimulated by activity, Sevens are compelled to stay on the go, moving from one experience to the next, searching for more stimulation...they try everything to make sure they know what is best. On a very deep level, Sevens do not feel that they can find what they really want in life. They therefore tend to try everything -- and ultimately may even resort to anything as a substitute for what they are really looking for...Sevens' characteristic temptation is the tendency to become dissatisfied with whatever they are doing or are currently experiencing. The grass is always greener somewhere else, and so they begin to look forward to the future, as if another event or activity will be the solution to their problems...This style of wandering attention has far more serious consequences for Sevens since so much of their lives are ruled by it. Thinking becomes anticipating, and they do not stay with anything long enough either to experience it deeply or to get any real satisfaction from it...They believe that by experiencing as many things as possible, they will know which options will make them the happiest...Sevens "jam" their own awareness of pain, deprivation and sadness by constantly keeping their minds occupied with interesting and exciting possibilities...[Under stress] their enthusiasm for their own opinions can rapidly shift into a tendency to debate or critique the views of others. They can become short, impersonal, and highly impatient with any degree of incompetence in themselves or others. Under high stress, their underlying anger and resentment bubble to the surface, and they vent their frustration by scolding, nitpicking, and delivering withering sarcastic comments.

This description feels correct. I am an experience junkie, always seeking the next thrill, visualizing the next project, and afraid of missing out on amazing opportunities. I have a hard time fully experiencing joy and wonder in the present moment because of my mind's obsessive future-orientation. Compulsive planning dominates my consciousness, leaving me challenged to authentically feel what is happening in real-time. Even my successful efforts to create wonderful social situations or pursue intense adventures are undermined by an inability to savor the fruits of my labor. It's a cruel trap. And I can become very judgmental (both of myself and others) at times, an ugly tendency which sabotages intimacy and causes me to feel shutdown.

The Enneagram offers prescriptions for the plight faced by a Type Seven. Specifically, the book suggests the following:

Cultivating a quieter, more focused mind brings Sevens into closer contact with their own essential guidance; thus they are able to recognize which experiences will be of real value to them. No longer distracted by anxiety about making wrong choices and missing out on the best course of action, integrating Sevens simply know what to do. Exploring reality in greater depth does not cause integrating Sevens to lose their spontaneity or enthusiasm; on the contrary, they become more free to savor each moment...The key for Sevens to understand about themselves is that as long as they are directly pursuing happiness and satisfaction, they will never attain them. Fulfillment is not the result of "getting" anything: it is a state of being that arises when we allow the richness of the present moment to touch us. When Sevens understand this and are able to let go of the conditions they place on their happiness, an inner spaciousness opens up, and the simple pleasure of existing arises in them. They understand that Being itself, pure existence, is pleasurable. Thus they become deeply and profoundly appreciative of life itself...Above all, Sevens realize on the most profound level of their consciousness that life is really a gift.

This feels true. In order to be liberated from my own cycle of suffering, I must cultivate techniques for present-moment living. This means slowing down my mental buzz, learning how to embrace feeling over thinking, and grappling with uncomfortable emotions which are otherwise submerged by a wave of obsessing on future activities and scenarios. I realize that the key to my sustainable happiness is learning to experience what is happening and lowering my emotional guardrails. Only by giving myself permission to access raw powerful feelings can I expect to break through the monkey mind fog and embrace the beautiful experience of life itself.

The other key is being able to focus on completion and the development of true mastery of particular subjects. I am most satisfied when focusing on a set of skills or knowledge. For example, the practice of fire spinning and music allows me to continue challenging myself while feeling centered and grounded. Developing a set of ongoing practices should help to promote inner peace and sate my addiction to finding the next thrill. Kade urges me to try meditation and to sit in uncomfortable negative feelings. My subsequent experience with Vipassana meditation proves to be extremely helpful in this respect.

Kade is a good teacher but we run into some language barriers. It is very difficult to discuss complicated personality traits without a very comprehensive command of language. While Kade has a decent working knowledge of English for basic communication purposes, I find myself struggling to understand some of her explanations and occasionally become frustrated by my inability to use natural speech patterns. Instead, I am forced to perform real-time internal translations to select easier words and expressions before speaking. This process is not conducive to a free flow of ideas and, on occasion, I give up on trying to fully express myself. Even so, I review my book every day and spend many hours thinking about the nuances of each personality type, of my own tendencies, and of strategies for achieving more sustainable happiness and promoting healthy states of being.

Recognizing my Type 7 desire to explore a new area, I go running a few times during the week. Suited up in my spandex workout pants, New Balance sneakers, and lycra shirt, I jog outside the Foundation compound and through a variety of villages which line the main road. My presence provokes quite a bit of local interest, especially since I look like an alien transported directly from an urban gym to the rice paddies of northern Thailand. People stare with puzzled facial expressions and little children stop playing to observe my odd behavior. I can only imagine how rural villagers, who work the fields and engage in hard manual labor every day, are reacting to my voluntary choice to exercise by running up and down the road. The views of rice paddies and lush hillsides are beautiful and cause me to well up with joy. I am so happy to be in this place and to be investigating my inner self. I once again thank myself for having the wisdom to embark on this journey.

Outside of our time practicing yoga and discussing the Enneagram, Kade and I take trips to town and visit a number of local attractions including some hot springs and Wat Rong Khun (also known as the "White temple"). The White temple is a fantastic reinterpretation of Buddhist architecture intended by the artist to be "an imitation of heaven", leading the visitor through elements showing the cycle of life and the enlightened land of the Buddha. It is a completely unique monument which includes a pool of hands reaching up from hell, angry godlike figures, and murals depicting the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center. The artist, a Thai man named Chalermchai Khositpipat, happens to be on site the day we visit and I manage to get a photograph with him and Lamthan for posterity. Then I munch on some absolutely delicious pineapple to celebrate this auspicious occasion.

I ask Kade to help me find a Thai name. My given name turns out to be difficult for Thai people to pronounce (a typical effort sounds like "Math") and I am forced to repeat it many times at each introduction. Hoping to find a better way to connect with local culture, I decide that it would be preferable to have an easily comprehensible name. Kade takes my request under advisement and, one day, announces that my name should be "Maitree". This name apparently means something along the lines of 'generous good-hearted man'. I accept the new appellation and begin to use it whenever introduced to Thai people. The effect is better than I could have expected. People immediately recognize the name, smile broadly, respond with some kind of compliment (e.g. "very good name") and easily remember me. For the rest of my time in Thailand, I call myself Maitree and find that the name allows me to bond more powerfully with many Thai people. The experiment is so successful that I decide to find a local name in each country that I visit.

One day I walk around the compound in search of information about the work of the Mirror Foundation located in the surrounding complex of buildings. At their Hill Tribe project office, I watch a video about their efforts to help improve the quality of life for the various tribespeople living in nearby areas. It is a moving presentation and I realize that it's time for me to visit a village for an overnight stay. After consulting with the staff, I elicit an offer to spend a night at an Akha village with "AGong", a guide who has worked at the Mirror Art Foundation for many years.

I possess a strong fascination with traditional hill tribe culture. Past journeys to Southeast Asia included an exhausting hike with Liz to Kelabit villages deep within the jungles of Borneo and another grueling trek to an Akha village in northern Laos. In Vietnam, I explored several villages and learned much about the traditional customs and current problems facing different indigenous peoples.

By comparison, this overnight journey is done in luxury. I ride with AGong on the back of his motorbike along paved and well-maintained dirt roads, absorb the visuals of a lush countryside which takes on the character of an impressionist painting due to the golden light of a setting sun, and enjoy the rush of cool air against my skin. He takes me first to a "traditional" Akha village, shows me the spirit gate used to ward off evil ghosts (a giant wooden swing reserved for use during a particular festival) and explains how to tell the difference between Akha and Lahu villages -- the structural beams supporting the roof of an Akha house form an X at the top while Lahu roofs are shaped like a simple triangle.

We proceed to his home village which resembles the first one except that residents don't wear colorful outfits and the houses appear a bit more modern in their creature comforts. I notice the solar panels on each home, the result of a government program granting a system to each tribal family. The electricity provided by each 120-watt panel is sufficient for basic lighting and some operation of a small television and DVD/VCD player. AGong somehow managed to get two panels and is able to run his television for longer periods of time, which means that many children pack into his living room at night to watch videos. Everyone wins from his good fortune.

After arriving in the village and getting oriented, I walk to an open field where children are playing football (a.k.a. soccer) and horsing around in small clusters. I choose this moment to pull out the LED-illuminated frisbee which has been sandwiched inside my backpack since leaving home. It is the first time the disc makes a formal appearance on my journey. At first, the children don't know what to make of the plastic saucer and some run away as it approaches them from the air. But a few intrepid boys quickly figure out the game and soon the rest of the kids start buzzing around calling for me to throw the toy in their general direction. We are all laughing, running around, and having a great time with the flow of the action. I teach two of the more talented boys how to throw a forehand and one of them almost succeeds. After awhile the kids are no longer afraid of this huge, strange looking, older farang (foreigner). Once again my faith in the frisbee as a social bonding tool is vindicated.

I slip away from the action and turn towards a crew of very young children. I pull out my camera to see if they will let me take some photos in exchange for letting them study the images on the display. It doesn't take much convincing. This game quickly gets frenzied as the children jump on top of each other, aggressively pose, shout, and start grabbing at the camera to see the results. I am careful to protect the device while making sure that they can see themselves close up on the high resolution screen. When the collective energy becomes too crazy, I put the camera away in the hopes of calming everyone down. But it doesn't work. The kids start playfully attacking by poking my body, clutching my hands, and wrapping themselves around my legs. With so many of them piling on, I imagine myself as Gulliver fighting off throngs of Liliputians and worry that there may soon be critical mass to completely topple me onto the muddy field. I call upon deep energy reserves and manage to carefully shake off the clinging cherubs and run back to AGong's house hoping it will provide some form of sanctuary. The children follow and scream out various words including "Arigato" (Japanese for thanks). Just as I arrive with about a dozen kids in hot pursuit, AGong emerges from the house and cries out "dinner is ready". The kids slowly break off their attack and soon AGong and I are sitting on a bamboo platform facing platters of rice, fried ferns, an omelette, strips of roasted pork, shredded bamboo and chili sauce.

While we eat I notice his wife hovering but maintaining a discrete distance. I ask AGong how they met. He chuckles for a moment, explains that they were first paired 15 years ago, and shares that she was 14 years old at the time (and he was 27). When asking her parents for permission to marry, he brought over 3 bottles of Thai Whisky and 2 buckets of milk as an offering. Combined with his heartfelt entreaties, this was apparently sufficient and the marriage was blessed by the family.

AGong tells me a condensed version of his life story. Orphaned at a very young age when both his parents died, he was raised by priests and therefore considers himself a Catholic. Thankful for their generosity, he became a missionary and traveled throughout the area to spread the Christian gospel to various hill tribes, most of whom historically practiced a mix of animism and ancestor worship. Even those who became Christians appear to hold to some of these older religious traditions. After 10 years of serving as a volunteer, he decided to seek paying work and ended up as a guide after learning English at the Mirror Art Foundation. His English is surprisingly fluid and comprehensible for someone with almost no formal training. Today he leads tours to villages and helps act as a liaison between his employer and the tribes.

During dinner, AGong admits he is worried because tomorrow is the day he may finally receive his Thai citizenship. Due to his unusual upbringing, he never managed to get the proper papers to prove his birth and therefore has been stuck with a series of temporary permissions to work and travel in his own country. This problem is common amongst tribal peoples and has been exacerbated by the Thai government crackdown on illegal refugees from Burma and Laos. The Mirror Art Foundation focuses on assisting villagers to receive citizenship so that they can lawfully travel, work, and receive government benefits. AGong speaks with passion about his connection to this area and these people, seeming mystified by the prospect that anyone could reject his claim to citizenship. He has lined up local village leaders and elders to testify as to the validity of his claims. Yet there is trepidation in his voice, and I can tell that there is alot riding on tomorrow's government interview.

AGong asks me about the situation of the hill tribes in America. For a second I am stumped, then remember the plight of the Native Americans. I tell him an abbreviated and simplified version of how the American hill tribes welcomed (or at least accepted) the arrival of Europeans only to end up slaughtered, cheated and ultimately robbed of their territory by these invaders. The bright side, I explain, is that our Hill Tribes are the only peoples allowed to profit from gambling in most parts of the country. Upon offering this observation, I feel a bit foolish since this fact seems to merit no more than an asterisk in the retelling of Native American history.

After dinner, we sit and drink a bit of Thai Whisky. The sun has set and a creeping chill starts to raise the hairs on my skin. I like this feeling since it is not a normal body sensation while traveling in a tropical region. I watch as villagers squat around a few fires, gnaw on the remnants of dinner, smoke cigarettes and gossip about recent events. Once the sky is completely dark, I grab two sets of glow poi and walk over to the main gathering of people. After a few minutes of observing, I pull out my Oggz, turn on the internal LED elements and watch as the orbs begin to shift through a range of colors. This captures their attention. I step back and begin to spin, moving through a variety of sequences designed to show off the hypnotic power of these toys in the right hands. Although focused on not making a mistake, I can occasionally observe faces in the audience and note a mixture of intrigue and fear. When I bring the balls into a horizontal buzzsaw and approach several young ones, they slowly back away and keep a healthy distance from the revolving lights. I finish my spin, receive rousing applause from the group, and hear a shout of "very interesting" from some unknown villager. I do another spinning demonstration with my set of Flowlights and elicit a similar response. Interestingly, no one asks to play with the lights, which leads me to fear that they may perceive these unbelievably weird objects to be possessed by evil spirits. Realizing that this would probably be my conclusion under similar circumstances, I resign myself to the conclusion that these villagers may now see me as a direct representative of a nasty demon or wicked ancestor. So it goes.

I return to AGong's house and he shares his desire to move out of this relatively remote village to another more centrally located one where there is plentiful grid-connected electricity and it is possible to get internet access. He wants a home where both he and his children can learn computer skills (as basic as sending email) which he perceives to be the key to upward mobility and economic prosperity. I don't disagree with his assessment (being personally unable to imagine life in a place with no net connection) and wish him luck with making this change. We then head off to bed. I lie on a pile of blankets placed on wooden platform and slowly fall asleep to the sounds of livestock, dogs, passers by, and crying children.

The next morning I wake to a herd of cows passing the doorway of AGong's house. After a quick breakfast, AGong summons me to his motorbike, cranks the engine, and we glide away from the village. Later he drops me back at Kade's place, gives me a bow, and heads off to check on the status of his citizenship application. I later learn that he succeeds and is granted the formal recognition he so desperately desires.

One day later I bid farewell to Kade and Lamthan and board a bus headed towards the fabled city of Nan. Located in the northernmost corner of the country nestled against Laos, Nan province is characterized by an agricultural economy, lesser-known hill tribes (such as the Lu, Htin and Khamu), and insane natural beauty. During the 14th and 15th centuries, the province was part of the Lanna kingdom which spread across much of northern Laos, Thailand and Burma. It is generally overlooked by travelers and does not receive much traffic on the farang (foreigner) circuit. The prospect of spending a few days exploring the region feels intriguing, so I make a dash for the main city in the hopes of finding some magic in this remote corner of the country.

Upon arrival, I realize that this city has not been infected with the typical trappings of a travel destination. There are no stylish cafes, only a few internet spots, and English is not very widely spoken. After a bit of searching, I check into a large teak hotel and pay 350 Baht ($11) for my first night. After decompressing by watching some inane Australian television show on the set in my room, I embark on a search for dinner. This quest takes me to a night market where mobile kitchens serve fried noodles, rice and soups to patrons sitting at folding tables set off to the side. I pick one based on the English writing on the sign. The older man standing behind the skillet asks for my order in English, and I tell him to whip up something with noodles, pork and vegetables. After bringing me the steaming plate of fried noodles, he sits down and engages me in conversation.

I learn that he is 62 years old and holds two jobs. During the day, he fixes automobile axles. At night, he and his wife prepare meals at the market. He sleeps in his car, apparently to save both time and money. He asks about my journey and expresses surprise that I am alone and don't have either a girlfriend or wife in tow. I get the sense that he actually feels sorry for me. When learning the duration of my trip, he responds that it must cost alot of money to be away for one year. I realize that he cannot imagine having this much money. I tell him that it isn't that difficult because of the difference between the economic situation in the US and Thailand. At once a creeping sense of shame overtakes my consciousness. Here I am talking with a man who works two jobs and sleeps in his car to survive while claiming that it isn't even a serious hardship for me to spend 12 months galavanting across the globe in search of personal fulfillment and spiritual meaning. The gulf between our worlds is staggeringly unfair. Although I could imagine being filled with rage if I were in his shoes, the man smiles and seems genuinely thrilled to be having this conversation. When I tell him that he looks young for his age (which is true), he smiles and starts talking about the challenges of having diabetes and being unable to use injectable insulin. I offer my sympathy, which feels woefully insufficient, and then he is called away by the next customer demanding a plate of noodles. He thanks me for the conversation, urges me to come back again, and charges me 25 Baht ($0.75) for my dinner.

Two days later, I embark on my own version of the Motorcycle Diaries. Balancing all my gear on the frame of a rented Honda Dream, I head north to explore more remote portions of Nan province en route to Doi Phu Kha national park. Riding out of town on the bike, I feel joyous and liberated. Each stretch of road offers fascinating scenes in the life of rural Thailand. I pass farmers tending to their rice crops, villagers sitting around for a midday chat, and roadside stands selling piles of the famous oranges grown in this area. I stop at an art gallery and admire some contemporary pieces, take a detour to visit a temple adorned with ancient murals retelling stories of the Buddha's past lives, and provoke stares of wonder (or is that terror?) as I slowly cruise through a local market. After passing the town of Pua, I turn onto a new road and speed towards a range of hills. I feel the bike climbing quickly and have to focus on a series of sharp curves which make the ride much more exciting. After a few minutes of winding upwards, the views become startling -- in all directions I admire an endless series of ridges and valleys. Over the stretch of 25 kilometers (15 miles), I gain 1000 meters (~3000 feet) of altitude and notice a significant temperature drop. At this level, low-hanging clouds are sweeping across the road causing little pellets of mist to sting upon striking my face at high speed. Even so, the intoxicating freedom leaves me practically drunk with awe. I am so glad to be at this exact place at this moment in time, and again quietly celebrate my decision to take this time away from home.

I reach a national park checkpoint and encounter a man who speaks only a smidgeon of English but informs me that my desired guesthouse is closed. His cousin, the owner of the Bamboo Hut described so appealingly in the Lonely Planet, has apparently decided to head south for employment opportunities and no longer tends to the complex of bungalows or leads tours. For a moment, I am stumped by this development and wonder if my plans will be thwarted. According to the Lonely Planet, official park accommodations and food supplies must be reserved in advance. I have only a few oranges and 1 liter of water. Trying to break the language barrier, I ask about alternatives to the defunct Bamboo Hut and the man claims that I should be fine just showing up at park headquarters. I give him 200 Baht ($6) for the entrance fee and proceed onward with guarded optimism.

Accommodation and food turn out to be no problem. Within minutes of arriving at the visitor center, I hand over 300 Baht ($9) for a very small bungalow and order dinner from the restaurant. It is not clear that there is any sort of menu, and communication is very tricky, so I count on the cook to take care of me. My faith is rewarded with a plate of rice, vegetables and chicken. At the restaurant, I encounter a trio of Thai University students who are spending the week at this park studying the essential oils secreted by certain native plants. They seem good natured and invite me to join them in devouring a much more comprehensive feast prepared by the same cook. They all speak fairly advanced English, which is a relief, so I try to find out more by asking about their lifestyles and hobbies. In response, the guy tells of his preference for video games and movies. One woman talks of her furry Gatsby, a lovable pet which is quite stinky. The other woman does not appear to have any hobbies or interests at all. So I entertain them with stories of my travels and passions. They seem a bit overwhelmed by my presence and, upon finishing dinner, announce that it's time for them to go to sleep. According to my watch, it is only 7pm. Not dispirited by this social abandonment, I return to reading "100 years of Solitude" and am mesmerized by Marquez's fantasy imagery for several hours before collapsing inside my tiny thatched hut.

The next morning, I ask the staff if there is a guide who can take me hiking. Within a few minutes, they find a man dressed in a jungle camouflage uniform embroidered with park department insignia. Observing nearby a Thai couple plucking bloody leeches from their feet, I pull out my leechproof socks (more like gaiters) ordered online for this very type of hike, slide them over my socks and pants, and pull tight the elastic cords. My 32-year old Thai guide introduces himself and thankfully speaks some rudimentary English. He leads me on a well marked "nature trail" which starts flat and muddy but soon becomes quite steep. To my delight, the leechproof socks work remarkably well. Although dozens of these slimy beasts assault my boots and climb upwards hoping to drill for blood, none can penetrate my gear. Having a solid defense makes me relax in the face of the onslaught.

We quickly climb about 300 meters, leaving me sweaty but energized. At one junction, we veer off the trail to visit the well-known Chumpoo Pukah tree. At the viewing point, I am unable to figure out which tree is famous until the guide points at it. It is truly unremarkable in all respects. He tells me that it has a beautiful pink and red flower which can be seen in March. I try to imagine this flower in full bloom but unfortunately fail to come up with a visual. Bushwhacking up the hill, the guide shows me a grove of banana trees with young fruit and tells me how it is possible to extract 15 liters of drinkable water from each tree just by cutting a strategic hole and inserting a straw. A few minutes later, he successfully forages for a special forest fruit which is tangy, stringy and quite refreshing. The trail continues to climb and more sunlight comes in through the canopy. "No more leeches" he says since they cannot survive outside of a shaded and moist environment. Now I feel very relaxed and try harder to appreciate the trees, moss, and plants passing to our sides. My mind wanders to future events and I repeatedly pull my consciousness back to the present. Staying tuned into the present moment proves to be a continuous challenge. As we arrive on a flat grassy plain, the trail widens and slopes downward. There are partially obscured views of the hills trailing off in all directions. I feel strong and able to continue for many more hours. But there isn't much more left. The guide's mobile phone rings just as we reenter the park campgrounds. I am amused by the fact that Thailand's cellular phone network provides far superior coverage than can be found in places like California. I thank him for his time, hand him 100 Baht ($3) as a tip, and then return to my bungalow. Within an hour I pack, mount the motorbike and say goodbye to the park. Riding on the twisting road, I silently meditate on the rush of freedom flooding my synapses. It is a very good day to be alive.

That evening I stop in the town of Pua and find a hotel room at one of the more swank places in the area. After trying in vain to locate some interesting social opportunities at restaurants in town, I return to my place and end up socializing with the brothers whose family runs the hotel and attached restaurant. They insist that I drink Thai vodka and beer with them. One brother is studying hotel management in Chiang Mai and works at the luxury D2 hotel. He is desperate to leave Thailand and hears stories of riches to be gained from working menial jobs in developed countries. When I ask about why he would choose to leave his family and community, he tells me that, according to a friend, it is possible to make $300 per week working in Australia. I quickly do the math in my head and realize that this perceived pile of riches amounts to around $15,000 per year which is a poverty-level wage. I start to explain that the costs of living are very high in Australia, that his lack of marketable job skills and dodgy immigration status will prevent him from finding quality employment, and that he may feel alienated and pine for his family and friends. But I've had this conversation many times before with people in developing countries and learned that no dose of reality will dissuade someone from wanting to pursue what appears to be big money. So I let it drop and hope that he decides not to leave Thailand for a life of poverty in the West.

The next day I resume my journey, admire the countryside, stop at a waterfall for a particularly gratifying swim with an enthusiastic local guide leading the way, and ultimately return to the teak hotel in Nan for some rest, meditation, and a last night of wandering this quiet town. With my Nan adventures complete, I return to Chiang Mai for one final visit and spend a few more days with Nuch (the hotel manager) and her gang. We go out drinking and dancing, share stories, and generally behave like a family. I feel at home in this city with these people. It is a blessing.

I finally finish "100 Years of Solitude" and marvel at the richness of Marquez's descriptions, the grandeur of his vision, the magical quality of the tale, and the underlying message that everything is impermanent. Even the greatest of empires fades, happy times will give way to bad ones, and everything we accomplish may ultimately be forgotten. It provides the perfect groundwork for my upcoming meditation retreat -- an experience I will find immensely challenging. Rather than obsessing about this future, I focus on experiencing the present moment. I am doing my best to internalize the lessons of the Enneagram on the eve of entering a meditation bootcamp which will alter the way I understand the relationship between body and mind.