Читать книгу The Backpacking Housewife - Janice Horton - Страница 7

The flight from Bangkok to Chiang Mai takes a little over an hour. When I arrive, the sun is shining in a clear blue sky and, although it is still boiling hot with temperatures in the high thirties, I immediately find it less humid and polluted than claustrophobic Bangkok.

I take in great gulps of the fresher air and feel my head clearing.

I take a taxi from the airport to the old part of the city and watch the wonders of Chiang Mai unfold in front of my eyes. Here, at last, I can really feel the benefit of time and distance working in my favour. My thoughts this morning are heavily focussed on self-preservation.

It has occurred to me that if I’m going to be alone in future then a positive mindset is going to be my strongest tool for survival. I don’t have to be a betrayed wife and a sad empty-nester – I realise I have a choice. I can be the old me, or I can be set free.

It’s simply a matter of shifting my perspective.

A small, dirty child runs to my taxi as we wait in traffic in the narrow streets. She bangs her tiny fist insistently on the window where I am sitting. The driver yells something and waves his arms dismissively to scare her away. In her hand, the girl has a small packet of tissues to sell and she waves it at me. Her pretty face is imploring me to buy from her. I wind down the window, much to my driver’s irritation, and give her a hundred baht note – the equivalent of around two pounds in sterling. In exchange, she throws me a delighted smile and the tissues and I smile back at her. I don’t need the tissues. I suppose I just wanted to do a small act of kindness in the remote hope that karma might smile back on me and provide a little compassion in return.

I feel like I need all the help I can get.

My accommodation of choice is a family-run homestay. It’s ridiculously inexpensive for a three-night stay when I consider what I’ve just paid for one night in Bangkok. The moment I arrive, climbing out of my taxi in a quiet shady side street just a few minutes’ walk from the old square, it’s glaringly obvious to me that I’d underestimated how long I should stay here.

The place is simply gorgeous. The house is of a bygone age. Traditionally built in the local thick, honey-coloured stone, it has a first-floor terrace overlooking the street and its long oak balustrade is covered with twisted flowering vines. It looks so weathered by its history and by everything around it, and so reflective of what was once here in the ancient capital city of the Kingdom of Lanna, that I feel immediately enchanted.

I’m welcomed at the kerbside as I get out of the taxi and led into the house by a barefoot old man who insists on carrying my rucksack. I’m assuming he is the grandfather of the family. I slip out of my flip flops and trot along behind him as he shuffles along a cool hallway lined and scented with incense sticks, where the floors are inlaid with beautiful mosaics and where all the doors have big, heavy, wrought iron latches, making the place feel like a safe haven.

At the far end of the hallway, I glimpse a small shaded garden with wrought iron tables and chairs and tropical plants. At the reception area, I meet the mother of the family, whose name is Noon and who speaks very good English. I explain to her straight away how I’d initially booked for three nights but that I might now like to stay longer if that’s possible.

She smiles and tells me no problem and just to let her know by tomorrow.

She hands over a heavy iron key that looks like it unlocks a castle gate and bows to me graciously. ‘Yours is room seven. Breakfast is served between 7.30 and 10 a.m. in the garden. Enjoy your stay, Miss Anderson.’

And there it is again; the assumption that I’m single and unmarried.

My room is on the upper floor and set back on the terrace that overlooks the street. Inside, it is deliciously cool thanks to a stone tiled floor. I look around to see a double bed and simple bamboo furnishings and a clean and functional bathroom, with a toilet, a vanity sink, and a walk-in shower. It feels strange to be here on my own but I’m not scared.

I’m feeling something else now. Liberated? Excited?

I spend the afternoon walking the streets of the old town. I stop for a delicious Pad Thai washed down with a cold local beer at a busy and popular-looking street food stall. I devour the meal. Anyone would think that I hadn’t tasted food in weeks. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. The soft noodles and the fish sauce and tamarind and fresh lime flavour is exquisite in my mouth. How can such a basic dish that costs so little taste so good?

With my hunger satisfied, my thirst quenched and my mood lifted, I explore the bustling market, primarily looking for a few more items of clothing and some underwear, but to my dismay, the only undergarments I can find are tiny slips of silk and lace. As my knickers of choice are usually plain cotton from M&S, I flick through all those on offer looking for comfort.

With none to be found, I actually consider buying some men’s cotton underpants instead, reasoning that besides the baggy Y-front bit at the front they look like my sort of thing.

You’ll be relieved to know I didn’t. Instead, I give in and buy several pairs of colourful silk and lacy ones, although I’m convinced they’ll be uncomfortable and scratchy.

I am, however, pleased with my other purchases of loose-fitting cotton shorts in lovely bright colours, a pair of elasticated, baggy, hippy-style, elephant-patterned trousers (everyone seems to be wearing them and they look so comfortable), and several floaty cotton dresses and skirts and silk scarfs and sarongs – and all for such ridiculously cheap prices that I can’t bring myself to barter for them even a little.

In a second-hand book shop, I browse and manage to pick up a tourist map and a Lonely Planet: Thailand guidebook. Then, with my bags of shopping, I wave down a tuk-tuk to take me back to the homestay. I’ve never ridden in a tuk-tuk before and I’m really looking forward to the experience. It’s one of those things that everyone says you must do in Thailand. I suppose it’s like a rite of passage. No matter how dangerous and foolhardy it might seem at the time.

I can see there are two distinct types of tuk-tuk whizzing up and down the street at breakneck speeds. All are performing traffic ploys and manoeuvres that would certainly be illegal back in the UK and outrageously dangerous anywhere. The first type of tuk-tuk looks like a small motorbike with a precarious homemade sidecar welded haphazardly onto it. Or, there’s the more purpose-built three-wheeler with a domed-cab type that has a bench seat in the back.

The latter looks a little safer of the two, but of course as soon as I raise my hand, the one that screeches to a halt beside me with its engine popping and its driver grinning at me like a maniac is the precarious kind. I climb onboard and we’re immediately off, with both the warm evening air and every other vehicle’s exhaust fumes blowing in my hot face and through my sweaty hair. I cling onto the rattling open-sided framework, gritting my teeth.

As we enter the main traffic stream of cars and trucks and scooters and other tuk-tuks and open back trucks packed with passengers, we seem to be racing against teams of whole families sitting astride one scooter – Dad is driving and his young son is sitting between his knees, his wife is sitting primly side-saddle with a new baby in her arms, and their tiny daughter is sandwiched on the seat between her mum and dad. No one wears a helmet and all of them are carrying something like a shopping bag or a lunchbox or even a sack of rice.

At the roundabout-of-no-rules, I hold on even tighter and bite down on my lower lip to stop myself squealing in terror as we join the weaving masses, where just one vehicle either slowing or hesitating or wobbling would cause absolute carnage.

We somehow manage to come through unscathed and as we judder to a halt at the next set of traffic lights, I’m distracted from the mayhem of the death-defying junction ahead of us by the sights on either side of me. There is a large monkey sitting quietly in the front basket of a motorbike to my left and of the two men astride a small scooter to my right, one of them is carrying a fridge. It’s certainly an interesting and exhilarating way to get around town.

On my first morning in Chiang Mai, I wake early, just as the sun is coming up. I make myself a cup of coffee from the hospitality tray in my room and take it out onto the first-floor terrace that overlooks the street. I had expected the street to be deserted at this time of the day, but the opposite is true. I see lots of people lining the street, all holding bags of food or bowls of fruit and bottles of water, and they all seem to be waiting for something or someone.

Soon, along comes a posse of bald monks wrapped in saffron coloured robes, all carrying bowls. I’d say they were begging bowls, except clearly these monks don’t need to beg.

I watch, fascinated, as the monks walk slowly and purposefully down the street in a single line, oldest first, gracefully and humbly, and mostly barefoot. Then I see Noon, my landlady, standing at the roadside too. I watch her take a step into the path of an approaching monk and lay her offerings onto a cloth on the ground before him. She quickly drops to her knees in front of him with her head lowered and her hands pressed tightly together at her forehead. The monk stops in front of her and picks up the bag of cooked rice and the fruit she has laid down and places them in his bowl before giving her a blessing. His melodic chanting fills the street and floats into the air to reach my ears.

I go back inside feeling like I’ve just witnessed something very special indeed.

Later, I ask Noon if this procession happens every day or just on special occasions.

She explains that the monks are from a nearby temple and they rely on the people of the town to offer them ‘alms’ of food, water, and sometimes medicine. ‘Every morning, the monks walk along the street to collect what they need for the day. We offer rice, fruit, some steamed vegetables, all to show our love and respect. But, if the giver is a woman, she must never offer her gifts by hand. She must lay down a cloth between them as the monk is forbidden to ever touch a woman.’

‘And the chanting? What does that mean?’ I ask her.

‘That is a Buddhist blessing to honour me with a happy and purposeful life.’

‘A happy and purposeful life…’ I repeat wistfully.

Her words strike a chord, and I decide right at that moment that all I want in my life is to be happy and purposeful. It doesn’t seem such a lot to want or to ask for and yet to be blessed with those two simple ingredients in my life would mean that I have everything to live and to thrive.

‘And can anyone get blessed by a monk?’ I ask.

Noon laughs and tells me that in Chiang Mai there are over three hundred temples and that in any one of them, should I wish, I can be blessed by a monk.

I immediately tell her that I’d like to stay on here for another two nights.

Then I go out to seek as many temples and as many blessings as I can possibly find.

According to my guidebook, the most significant temple in Chiang Mai is Wat Doi Suthep, which is also one of the holiest Buddhist sites in Thailand. It’s the one every pilgrim or tourist has at the top of their hitlist. The temple sits on the top of a mountain and it overlooks the city.

I take a ‘songthaew’ open back taxi truck with several other Western tourists and we head up the winding mountain road, soon finding ourselves surrounded by dense tropical forest. In the trees, our driver points out colourful birds and small swinging monkeys. I strain my eyes to see them in the wild. I’m captivated by all the monkeys!

As we make our way further up the mountain road, we drive higher and higher past (supposedly haunted) waterfalls that fall dramatically from the cliffs above us and then gather in glistening pools far below us. I feel like I’m on a wild and epic adventure.

When the taxi truck pulls up and we all climb out, it’s clear we’re not quite there yet, as there is still a towering staircase ahead of us to climb. I brace myself for the ascent but I’m stopped from going any further by a small Thai woman, who I assume is trying to sell me something. I politely decline her several times, but she is ever more insistent, waving a garment at me and shouting ‘naughty knees, naughty knees!’

Fortunately, another tourist helps me out. It turns out that I’m being asked to ‘rent’ one of her long skirts because the hemline of the dress I’m wearing is not below the knee and therefore not respectable enough for visiting the holy temple. Embarrassed, I humbly apologise, pay the small baht fee for the skirt and attach it by its Velcro fastenings around my waist.

Then I huff and puff my way up the three hundred steps or so – but I’m not counting.

I do stop occasionally to take some photos of the views both above and beneath me, and of the incredibly colourful and jewel-like mosaic balustrade of a seven-headed serpent undulating all the way along the staircase. According to my guidebook, this is the longest ‘naga’ or ‘water serpent’ in Thailand. I find the climb as beautiful as it is exhausting.

At the top, although still on the lower terrace, I catch my breath by admiring a life-sized effigy of a white elephant. A plaque explains its significance and its interesting history. In the fourteenth century, a white elephant carrying a relic belonging to Buddha stopped here high on the mountain and after trumpeting three times, the white elephant died. The king at the time believed this to be an omen and that is why the magnificent temple was built here so long ago.

I walk on past rows upon rows of large polished brass bells towards the upper terrace where, after removing my flip flops and leaving them in a pile with many others, I find a multitude of smaller temples, ornate shrines, Buddha statues and golden umbrellas. In the centre of the terrace, I stand breathlessly in the bright glaring sunshine, bedazzled by a huge, gold, pagoda-style temple. It is so bright and shiny that I’m sure it can be seen from space. This is the impressive and magnificent centrepiece of Wat Doi Suthep.

After taking in the stunning views of the whole of Chiang Mai around me and strolling around the cloisters in the sunshine admiring everything ancient and colourful and shiny, I see a crowd flocking into one of the smaller chapels and I decide to follow them.

Inside, the chamber is lit by hundreds of candles and in the centre of the glow is a huge effigy of a lion. There is also a monk, who in Thai and then in fluent English, is telling the story of Phra Singh – the Lion Buddha – whose image is set with a really scary face.

He says this is to remind us ‘that just like the lion it is our nature to live bravely’.

From here, feeling slightly braver, I notice a line-up of several other young monks entering another of the minor temples and I follow them too. They file inside and then sit cross-legged in rows on the mosaic tiled floor facing an ornately decorated altar filled with flowers and fruit.

Behind the altar is an enormous golden statue of Lord Buddha himself sitting serenely in the lotus position and with a look of tranquillity on his very beautiful face. Between all the gold, the saffron-wrapped monks, the gently burning incense sticks, and the candles, the entire room and everyone in it appears to be glowing.

With a cue from a leading monk, all the young monks begin to sing.

I feel every hair on my body stand on end. It is all so incredibly beautiful.

Wanting to listen to more of their singing and to their prayers, I sit quietly on the floor at the back of the chapel, along with several other visitors. I’m not religious or spiritual in any way. I’m an ex-protestant turned profound atheist, and I’ve never really had time to think about faith or my lack of it before – but I am captivated with the passion of the hypnotic chanting. I’m sure, from the serene expressions of those around me, that everyone feels just as I do because there is just something about these amazing temples, these fascinating multi-faceted deities, and these monks who live surrounded by priceless jewels and tonnes of gold without owning anything of their own except the saffron robe that covers them.

I close my eyes to concentrate on the incantation.

My soul stirs and my heart soars as I listen.

Then my busy mind quietens and I feel my heart slow to a tranquil beat.

Any bitterness inside of me seems to melt away. I realise I’m meditating.

It is a truly wonderful feeling.

When all the monks stand to leave, I open my eyes and stand to leave too. I’m just on my way out of the door, when I happen to notice another statue set into a shrine in the wall. It catches my eye because it’s so joyfully colourful and because it has so many garland offerings around its neck and lit candles at its feet. It’s a happy smiling image of a chubby dancing elephant deity with four arms, and human hands and feet, joyfully holding up what looks like a conch shell, a bowl of grapes, and a lotus blossom.

In contrast to the scary lion of earlier, this one isn’t at all intimidating and, with his free hand, he’s holding up a decorated palm as if to say to those who might pass him by: ‘hey, stop and look at me and feel happy!’

So I buy a garland and a candle and I go back to the jolly elephant to offer him my gifts.

Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I close my eyes.

I’m not entirely sure how this works, so I try a silent prayer just like I might in a church.

Dear happy elephant, please help me to find happiness and purpose in my life.

When I open my eyes, I see a young monk has sat down next to me.

‘What do you see when you look at Lord Ganesh?’ he asks me in perfect English.

‘I see true happiness. It’s something I want for myself,’ I confess to him in a whisper.

The young monk smiles at me serenely. ‘Rest assured, if you are willing to open your heart, then Lord Ganesh will guide you. He will send a sign that will lead to your place of happiness.’

The young monk asks for my hand and so I give it to him.

And very carefully, without touching my skin, he ties a small piece of twisted white string around my wrist. ‘This is a sai sin bracelet of sacred thread. You must wear this until you find your place of happiness.’ Then he begins his songful blessing: Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum.

Embarrassingly, I’m moved to tears.

When he sees I’m weeping, he leans forward to speak in my ear in a voice no louder than a whisper. ‘There was once a lady who said to Lord Buddha, “I want happiness” and Lord Buddha told her that she must first remove “I” as that was her ego. Then, she must remove “want” because that was her greed. And then, she would be left with “happiness”.’

I ponder the meaning of his advice all the way back down the three hundred steps.

But at the bottom of the steps, my mind is suddenly filled with confusion.

Surely, in leaving everything behind me, I have already let go of my greed and my ego?

And what will be the sign? Will it be unmistakable, or will it be cryptic?

He also said ‘your place of happiness’.

Does that mean I’ll find my happiness in an actual place or simply in a mindset?

I return my rented skirt. I then notice another Thai lady sitting on the floor at the bottom of the steps with her jars of paste and pens and a small board with symbols on it. I see she’s offering henna tattoos for just a few baht. I immediately notice that one of the symbols is exactly the same as the one I’d seen decorating Lord Ganesh’s upheld palm.

It looks like an elaborate and swirly upside-down question mark.

‘What does this mean?’ I ask her, pointing to it.

‘It means to bring you much happiness,’ she replies.

‘Then I’ll take it,’ I tell her, sitting down and holding out my right palm.

Back at the homestay, several mornings later, after I had avidly explored practically every inch of Chiang Mai and visited dozens of stunningly beautiful temples all over town and received so many blessings that I had a whole collection of white string bracelets on my arm, I’m sitting at my breakfast table in the garden, enjoying tropical fruits and eggs and strong coffee and pondering where in Thailand I should travel to next.

As the tables around me are being taken up, I see there are lots of new people at the homestay today. Up until now, most of the other guests have been young couples or family groups and I’ve felt awkward and self-conscious about being on my own. I’ve honestly never had to have a breakfast at a hotel on my own before this trip. I’ve never been sightseeing on my own before. I’ve never flown on a plane or travelled alone and I’ve found it all rather disconcerting. I’ve thought that other people might be looking at me and judging me in some way for being alone. Silly, I know. But today, I realise, I’m not the only person here travelling solo. Some are younger, but not exclusively. There are one or two who are middle-aged like me. I also get the feeling that no one here feels even the slightest bit awkward for being alone.

In fact, everyone has an attractive aura of confidence and purpose about themselves.

I feel reassured. I don’t have to feel self-conscious or less worthy or invisible anymore.

Today, I feel it is okay to be alone. It is okay to be me.

Not the dull old me – homemaker and housewife – but the new enlightened backpacking me.

I’ve now started introducing myself to people I meet as Lori, not Lorraine.

Having a new name makes me feel different about myself.

As far as I am concerned, Lorraine is still back in the UK – married and betrayed.

Whereas Lori is a world explorer who is on an amazing adventure, meeting new people and having fun in the pursuit of happiness and purpose. Like the monks of Chiang Mai, she carries piety in her heart rather than her ego, and she travels lightly because she doesn’t need material things to represent her wealth. Lori is mindful of her place in the universe.

She is brave and fearless like a lion.

Over breakfast, in the green coolness of the garden, I strike up a conversation with a woman sitting at the table next to mine. She’s English and her name is Polly. I’m guessing, like me she’s in her mid-forties. She tells me she is from London originally and that she is a teacher taking a yearlong sabbatical – time out to travel. I didn’t know people did such a thing.

‘I teach history at a private school in Cheshire, just outside Manchester. But I’ve been travelling for almost a year now. I’m starting to seriously wonder if I’ll ever want to go back to my old job or my old life,’ she says, laughing at the thought of it. ‘I can’t really imagine being stuck in one place again. Travelling is so addictive.’

‘What will happen if you don’t go back?’ I ask.

‘I expect the person covering for me will take my job and I’ll have to find something else to do. I could always teach in Thailand. I’d just need a work visa. I must say I’m very tempted.’

I smile. ‘It sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind.’

‘And what about you, Lori. Do you have a job waiting for you in the UK?’

I shrug. ‘I was a housewife. But, like you, I now realise I have other options.’

‘So how long do you plan to stay in Thailand?’ she asks me.

‘Well, I only have a thirty-day tourist visa and I’ve used up seven of those days already, but I’m thinking of heading south. I hear the islands on the Andaman Sea are stunning and, for some reason, I feel the need to be by the sea right now. Somewhere to relax in the sunshine.’

Polly rolls her eyes in pleasure. ‘Oh, yes. Tiny tropical islands, palm trees, white sand beaches, warm clear waters. It’s known as the Maldives of Thailand down there. From Krabi, you can island hop all the way down the Andaman Sea to Langkawi in Malaysia. I did it earlier this year. You really should go. Three weeks might be long enough, if you pace it right’

I stare at her in wide-eyed wonder and in envy of her confidence.

‘And do you think it’s best to fly back to Bangkok en route to Krabi?’ I ask her.

Polly sips her coffee and shakes her head. ‘I’d suggest from here you take the train to Bangkok and then the bus over to Krabi. Then you can use a combination of ferries and long-tail boats to take you all the way down the coast stopping off at as many islands as you wish.’

I take out my notebook and jot down her advice on a new page that I’ve titled, ‘Top Travel Tips’.

‘And so, when I eventually reach Malaysia, what would you recommend I see there?’

‘You should definitely explore Langkawi and then head over to Kuala Lumpur. From KL you can head over to the Malaysian side of Borneo. I spent a month there and highly recommend it.’ She flicks through photos on her phone and shows me one of her holding a gorgeous baby orangutan. ‘This is Peanut. He’s just one year old. He’s just like a human baby. He lives at this orangutan orphanage in Borneo where I volunteered. He was rescued from the jungle and now he gets to play in the nursery with other older orphans and learn the skills that will eventually lead to him being rehabilitated and released back into the forest reserve to live wild once more.’

Little Peanut is so tiny and has such a cute face, with his round bright eyes and spiky red hair.

My heart swells just looking at him. ‘That’s so fantastic. Can anyone go there to help with the orangutans or do you have to have special qualifications?’

‘You don’t need qualifications, although relevant experience might help. I think you just need to care deeply about the animals and the rehabilitation programme. In return, you get meals and lodgings and to help an endangered species. It’s so worthwhile.’

Polly happily scribbles down the name of this sanctuary for me in my notebook.

‘It’s called the Northern Borneo Orangutan Orphanage and it’s run by the Goldman Global Foundation. If you do an internet search it’ll give you all the details and contact information.’

‘Thanks Polly. I’ll look into it. I loved doing voluntary work back in the UK for various causes, including animal charities, so maybe they’d consider all of that relevant experience. And, just to recap, you say that taking a train is far the best way for me to get from here down to the coast?’

‘Yes. It’s a bit of a journey but it’s the cheapest and certainly the most scenic way to get back to Bangkok from here. It’ll take either all day or all night, but that’s part of the fun, right?’

I feel so glad that I’ve met Polly. She’s inspired me with confidence, given me some brilliant travel tips, and provided me with a lifeline as to how I might find direction and purpose in my new life. Later on, I check the train timetable and the bus route that she’d suggested to me.

I find she was right about the train taking all day or all night, as you could choose either the daytime train or the nighttime sleeper for the twelve-hour journey to Bangkok. Polly had said that travellers, especially backpackers, generally prefer the night train as it saves on the cost of a hostel and the fare for both journeys is much the same.

Conversely, I eventually decide on taking the daytime train, because that way I’ll get to spend the whole day looking out of the window at the Thai countryside as I travel from north to south. I’m not at all fazed by the length of the journey. I’m already hooked on the romantic notion of taking an old train on what is said to be an iconic journey through Thailand.

It sounds to me like a great adventure.

Although, on further investigation, I think Polly has rather underplayed the second leg of the trip from Bangkok to Krabi by bus. I discover this journey will take another gruelling ten hours or possibly longer. So, I make an executive decision for myself and decide, that after taking the daytime train, I’ll save being squashed into a small bus in the pitch dark with lots of sweaty hippies heading to full moon parties on the beach and spend a bit extra on staying overnight in Bangkok once more. That way, I have the more convenient option of a two-hour flight over to Krabi the following morning. It sounds like baht well spent to me.

Just as I’m about to leave the homestay for the train station, Noon and Polly kindly come out to wave me off. I hug them both and thank them for their kindness.

Noon bows gracefully and wishes me kar deinthang mi khwam sukkh (happy travels).

Polly wishes me good luck. ‘Oh, Lori, I forgot to say just one more thing!’ she yells, as I’m just about to depart in a tuk-tuk. I stick my head out of the cab in anticipation of another pearl of her wisdom. ‘Yes, what is it?’ I ask her eagerly.

‘If you pay a few extra baht for the first-class carriage, you’ll get air conditioning!’