No plan goes according to plan

June 3- 10

View from our last hotel in Chiang Mai.
The most awful hotel we stayed at,
but the most beautiful view out of all. 

The thud of the clock’s every stroke is the only movement within the stillness of the drab, hospital room.

Time is eerie in a hospital—the fluorescent, stark lights unchanging, the faces of patients and individuals worn with worry. There was a father in the elevator, a girl's small hand snug within his tender grasp. She wore the pale, turquoise patient garb, soft features framing her young face. If you could pick through all a hospital elevator sees within the day, it would be like sifting through the thickest current of a range of emotions. 

Only as you step out from the hospital doors do you realize the world has moved on, nightfall replacing the late morning you'd arrived in. Though it's all the same to the patients on the other end, hooked to an IV as each drop swivels through the translucent tube under the skin.

Or at least, as is the case with Caitlan who's been stuck inside the Bangkok Hospital of Phuket for the past four days. Diagnosis: Dengue Fever.

________________

I slumped into the backseat of the taxi, noting the faint glow of the moon up ahead.   

"How are you?" the driver asked, pushing aside his ruffled shag of black hair.

I sighed, charging off onto a spiel as Caitlan had entered that morning, her fever high, the two of us unsure as to the cause behind the symptoms. She underwent blood work, the nurses returning with her diagnosis. We'd read up on Dengue Fever when Caitlan first felt ill. It's one of two illnesses listed in the back of our Thailand travel books. The other: malaria.

Symptoms-- high fever, headache, gum irritation, dizziness, decreasing platelet count-- can develop anywhere between three to 15 days after infected and last between seven to 12 days. The fever is transmitted by mosquitoes; there's no cure nor precaution, save avoiding mosquitoes. It's a matter of riding out the fever while restoring the platelets. Caitlan, as a result, is hooked to an IV; The fever could have turned lethal had we waited just a few extra days.

"Long," I told the taxi driver. "It's been a long day."

He beamed, his hair bobbing as he nodded animatedly. 

"Good, good," he responded, looking pleased with his English.

And for the first time, Caitlan wasn't next to me to laugh for she's always the one to make fun of my never ending attempts to converse with our Thai taxi drivers. Who, all but one, can never fully respond.

Her fever had started in Chiang Rai, Thailand's northernmost province. It was day three of our stay (too long in both of our books) and we were en route to what we thought was Chang Saen.

Caitlan was dizzy, though that morning, neither of us thought too much of it.

________________

Chiang Rai bus station

We’d returned to Chiang Mai after two nights in the hippy, mountain town of Pai-- setting off to Chiang Rai the following day. Chiang Rai is a sleepy town-- little to see, save the night market, a white temple and town clock that lights up on the hour at night with a musical ensemble that blares from city speakers. 

Chiang Rai's location allowed for a day trip to Mae Salong, a Chinese tea village up in the mountains. We arranged for a hotel van to shuttle us to and back. The cost had been an arm and a leg, so we opted for a DIY trip to Chang Saen-- the center of the opium trade and the city the closest to the Hall of Opium, a privately owned and funded museum.

There’s no obvious booth to buy a ticket at the Chiang Rai bus stop. Not, for that matter, that there are obvious places in Chiang Mai or Bangkok, but at least in those cities, there are enough booths with people able to help. The two of us moseyed along the numbered, nameless stops, a kind gentleman overhearing Chang Saen and pointing us toward a driver pacing by his van.

Vans in northern Thailand are 14 seat shuttles—with a stroke of luck, perhaps with a/c that works. They stop at their share of random locations along highways and side streets—and seeing as our driver assured us we were headed to Chang Saen, Caitlan and I assumed the last stop would be our requested destination.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” our driver said, a touch of a smile as we stepped out the van, a pristine view of the river in front, mammoth sculptures of elephants anchored by golden posts off in the distance. "This is Golden Triangle," the driver laughed. Chang Saen had been the stop before. 

There was a small information desk, manned by a few women who spoke fairly little English.

We needed to know what time the last bus would leave from the Golden Triangle. But the desk womens' English conveniently stopped after their line about the motorcycle they'd offered to rent to us in lieu of the oddly, nonexistent taxi cabs around. We spotted a group of tourists, I picking up that they were French. And so switching to the language that guided last year's experience abroad, I got us directions to the Hall of Opium, found out that the last bus to Chiang Rai would leave at 5 and asked after their whereabouts. "Fontainebleau," one of the ladies responded. It's a small, well-to-do town outside of Paris, known by the chateaux in the center of it.

I smiled. I’d been there, just over a year ago. It’s funny where life takes you—what carries through as the adventure unfolds and life all blends. 

Top: Golden Triangle
Bottom: Chiang Rai's white temple

__________

A monk rode in the front our van that afternoon. He work bright orange robes; We'd learned that the orange of their robes references the story of the bark tree the Buddha used to dye monk shrouds. Monks wear one of four shades of orange (saffron, bright, dark and a red/brown). The colors once differentiated where the monks lived. Today, it's merely tradition.

The monk had a round face, a thin layer of prickled dark hair, salted by gray strands. He smile was wide, stretching all sides of his cheeks, two twisted front teeth poking in front of his gaping grin.

We had been chatting with a lady to our right, a young woman from Georgia who'd spent a year and a half working in an elephant research center in Bangkok and Chang Saen. She spoke Thai, translating the monk’s words for us as he turned to ask after our birthdays.

"Honesty," he said to me. "September, you are honest."

__________

Chiang Rai bus station

Cailtan’s fever had peaked by the time we got back to the hotel that evening. We left for Chiang Mai the following day, stopping at Chiang Rai’s white temple in the morning before heading back to the chaos of the bus station.

It was our third time back in Chiang Mai, staying in a cheap daily/weekly/monthly apartment at the other end of the canal that cuts through the old city. The area was less touristy, less English and I sensed home to more expats. 

I paced through the narrow alley from the hotel and onto the busy road of the main street, headed to find a pharmacy to purchase a thermometer. I mimed sick to a lady on a bench outside her store. She responded—her English surprisingly perfect—directing me to the drugstore down the street. But none of the nurses understood my rendition of thermometer, and so I took to pen and paper, drawing out my request.

With Caitlan inside the room, I ate meals alone. I sat outdoors for breakfast, losing myself in the view of the morning rush as the city awoke. A father sat outside of his shop—he spoke in French as he played with his young, Asian daughter. A monk walked past, slow in his step as he ambled ahead. One of the girls who worked in the restaurant arrived on her motorcycle; She was dressed in her school uniform, the standard navy skirt inched just below the knee, tucked over a a plain, gray-blue, button-down shirt. 

A thin, scrawny man rode by on his bicycle, waving to catch my attention. He framed two fingers into a half circle, pulling the corners of his mouth.

Smile, he seemed to say. I did, laughing as he cycled by.

I came to Thailand for the adventure, though just as much in search of a story. But halfway through of our month away, I can’t quite put my finger on just what the story is. 

You can't plan things in life, nor chase a story you're in the midst of creating.

This could be my story if I lived here, I thought as I walked back to the hotel to check on Caitlan, her fever having spiked to 103 degrees Fahrenheit. A lady sat cross-legged on the bench by the hotel, her back to the sidewalk, her gaze fixated on the television screen at the end wall of her storefront. She'd been sitting in the same position the day prior. 

Carving a place in this Thai life wouldn't be easy, but I know with time I could adapt. The lady outside her shop and I would exchange a sowatdeeka-- hello. The family opposite the apartment building we're staying in would become familiar faces.

Though, as I mentioned to Caitlan once back in the room, what’s the purpose in lifting all we know as comfort into the challenge of finding a new place and recreating the routine of life away from the one we already have?

I think the clearest when away from my routine. I find my stories in my travels. And I feed from the accomplishments that rise from the challenges I set myself upon. 

Yes, that could be my story. Running away from life, following the Buddhist, honest trail to a new place in a Thai world. 

__________

We caught a flight to Phuket that evening, headed south to Thailand's largest island and beach resort. We would have just over a week to explore the southern islands before somehow working our way up to Bangkok.

Which, at the time, neither of us were worried. There’s no plan to anything as life goes on—no plan to our trip, no plan to Caitlan’s fever. A fever that two days later would still linger at 103 degrees Fahrenheit—as we hailed a cab to the international wing of the Phuket hospital. Caitlan would be admitted and the slowest four days would settle-- each drummed stroke of the hospital room's horrible clock serving the reminder that no plan ever goes according to plan.

Top: Mae Salong tea plantation
Bottom: Mae Salong village

The thrill of life without the fear of trying

May 30- June 1

They say you eat an average of eight spiders per year. That is, in your sleep—although in this part of the world, perhaps on a stick.

And seeing as there was a spider on top of the towel and a lizard on the wall and some sort of flying creature trespassing through our bungalow, I reckon I'll reach my year quota in the two nights of our stay in the northern, mountain city of Pai.

To add to the matter, my covers had a dead bug and the sheets were smeared with some sort of pink smudge—lipstick stain… or insect remains?

Whichever way, unsanitary in my book.

I had been fine that afternoon as our van of 14 curved through the 762 bends of the mountain drive from Chiang Mai to Pai. The ride should be my proof that if I could make it through four-hours of motion sickness, I can sleep through two nights of a mountain bungalow shared with resort critters. For that van offered the same amount of room to be car sick as there was to stretch my legs.

Precisely none at all.

____________

May 29

It came to me while white water rafting in Chiang Mai.

Life doesn't have to be about conquering fears-- More so, I believe, not letting our fears stop us from trying.

It’s been some time since I last white water rafted-- my hesitation a result of a fatal incident that occurred within my camp community a couple years back.

The creek we rafted through. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking. 

Caitlan and I had signed up for a group, day trek on our third day in Chiang Mai-- white water rafting a part of the itinerary. Seven other Chinese travelers had also registered, all of whom were coupled up save one. His name was Ju and was traveling alone.

We spent the day shuttling from our hotel to an orchid farm (thrilling), before parking at destination day trek. We hiked a short way up the mountain, harnessing ourselves to a thin wire of a zip line and zig zigging our way back down. The lines were attached to the trees with a man at each of the 19 platforms to catch our fall.

Though catching must have been a loose term for they tended to focus more on taking our picture (for us to later buy), forgetting to yell “brake” (in which we were to stick a hammer-like tool onto the wire in order to brake the fall) and then, for the times they managed to throw the camera aside in time, catching us in the last few seconds. 

We later paired off for elephant riding, joining together again for an hour floating on a relaxing bamboo raft, before heading out to a shallow, rocky creek for white water rafting.

____________
I froze getting on the raft, tense as we bumped along the rocks though I knew there was no need for concern. The water toed just above the ankle.

Our raft leader instructed us all to jump the raft's right or left side each time we got stuck on a rock. Ju sat to my right, leaping (however possible while sitting on a blown up tube) as if he were wired with a box spring. Ju got creative with his jumping, covering all bases of the front end of the raft-- rather than just the edges, as the raft leader instructed. 

The rafts actual leader was probably no more than 15—a young boy that shouted instructions in Chinese.

Which was great safety protocol seeing as two of the total spoke only English. He disappeared at a point—I close to fainting. Perhaps he had drowned and why were we laughing rather than turning back and saving him? But he popped back up, having hid under the boat as, in his words, a joke.

I sensed my initial hesitation waning off as the afternoon progressed. It was a level of camaraderie that built as we fell into rhythm, I following the gentle counting of the man seated behind me in his attempt to synchronize the motion of our group's paddles. 

There's a natural human instinct for connection that transcends language barriers. Albeit our group's inability to communicate fully by conversation, we managed to work as a team getting through the creek’s bumpy course. I let the tension weigh off my chest, allowing my gaze to gloss over the breathaking scenery: the shades of green within the slopes of the mountains, the light orange buds of the fine leaved trees. Bamboo huts lined parts of the river, people sitting lazily within—many sharing a small smile as they watched the struggle of those rafting along. 

A rainbow appeared overhead as we neared the end: Mother nature's finish line, of sorts.

____________

Elephant riding, earlier that day. Elephants don't come with seatbelts...
which makes the downward descent into the water a tad bit terrifying.

The rafting trip had been a step from my comfort zone—the zip line, one that tested Caitlan. But the tigers we spent 10 minutes petting the day before, our daily tuk tuk rides, even coming to Thailand with only eight days planned of a month away, is all just about as dangerous as a zip line with a rickety rope and a raft slipping down a shallow creek. 

We learn a bit about ourselves each time we exit the straight path of comfort. For it's the bridges and dips, the acceptance of the unplanned (a midnight treat of eight Pai spiders) and the decision to push aside a fear of trying, that can send us spinning in search of the thrill.

Of course there's worth to approaching what we fear with caution-- but in avoiding the fear, we also succumb to the fear. The definition of thrill differs per individual, but it's one that can embrace the spirit within the uniqueness of our lives. 

There's a thrill to life that we can achieve without letting the fear of trying stop us from stepping forward. In the process, that's how we stumble upon life within our lives. 

What it 'tuk' to get to Northern Thailand

May 26

She had pulled her hair into a clip behind her head-- thin, dyed auburn strands framing her pleasantly round face.

“Sit, sit,” she urged, taking our juice and food orders as we slid onto the outdoor wooden benches of her restaurant guest house—a walk down from the train station we'd just arrived from. We had left from Bangkok at 9 that morning, seated aboard an hour and a half train ride to Ayutthaya, Thailand's historic capital city. Our luggage was left under watch by the Ayutthaya rail police—they having stamped our bags, handing us a slip and directing us to place our items on racks in an unlocked, central store room. 

Our waitress pulled out a map, circling the sites she suggested we see. We told her we had until 9 that evening, with plans to catch an overnight train up to Chiang Mai.

She smiled gently, revealing a small gap between her front teeth. “You've got time. Eat and then I’ll call you tuk tuk.”

And so we gorged on our afternoon lunch, savoring the freshness of the mango fruit juice.

Our waitress returned. Saifon was her name, she said, holding a small child nestled comfortably in her arms. Her boyfriend the tuk tuk driver had found himself a new girlfriend, leaving behind her now five-month old baby girl, Saifon said.

“What's her name?” I asked.

“Newya,” she seemed to said. Saifon gazed tenderly at her daughter, "She was born on the New Year."

__________
Saifon’s brother was our tuk tuk driver, shuttling us through the temples of the city—only one of which was a working temple. The rest were ruins, remnants from around the 1700s when the Burmese invaded the city.

Temple ruins in Ayutthaya

Tuk tuks have no doors, nor seatbelts. It's about as safe as riding a bicycle blindly along an American highway. Only Thai residents can obtain permits to drive a tuk tuk; Caitlan pointed out that we've yet to see a woman tuk tuk driver. 

Save the traffic lights and road signs (the few scattered in town), there are no rules to Thai driving. Our tuk tuk followed the course of cars and motorcycles—with as many as four people cramped into a seat, often a young child or small dog standing in front—as we merged with the maze of traffic onto the highway. You’re to drive in the middle between two lanes before crossing over—creating a cluttered mess as drivers speed through-- speed limits also, I assume, merely a recommendation. Some drivers look over their shoulders as they cross lanes, but most rely on the driver behind who will honk (a light tap and faint sound) to signal his nearing approach. Our driver from Chiang Mai to Pai a few days later honked at a cow taking up the side of the road. It mooed back. Not all along the highway take the honk seriously. 

____________
We handed the luggage slip to the Ayuttaha rail police that evening. The guard gave us a quick nod, granting Caitlan and I permission to enter the ajar door of the luggage room. 

____________

The train car was narrow; Mint green curtains pulled on the car's either side covered those asleep in the bunkers. We stopped at 13 and 15, two upper beds about half the size of twin beds in width. I layered the pillow with my skirt (G-d forbid my head touched the who-knows-when-last-washed pillow case, regardless of the fact I was still clothed in the day's sweat ridden wear) and perched my feet on top of my purse, so as to ward off any eyeing the camera in my bag.

And then I passed out, exhaustion from the day canceling all hesitation of sleeping on a bunker train, the sound of the wheels along the track calming as I drifted to sleep.

By 7.30 that morning, Caitlan and I were awake, a train official asking us if we wanted breakfast.

We sat on the seats below, eating our six, bite sized cookies with flavor the surfaced once dipped in our miniscule cup of coffee.

The waitress appeared 30 minutes later, a 460 baht check ($15) for our meal—the most expensive bill seeing as we normally budget 80 baht ($2.60) for breakfast, perhaps 150 baht ($5) at most. Absolutely not $15 for six cookies. A chutzpa, if you ask me.

I watched the train official work his way through car, stripping the upper and lower beds of the sheets, before pulling down the mattresses, undoing the planks and turning the lower level into two separate chairs.

By day, the train is an ordinary passenger car—by night, bedtime on tracks.

____________

We survived the overnight experience, albeit the aches from the cramped position we slept in  (nothing that wouldn’t be fixed with a 30-minute Thai massage later that day), smelly from a full day’s outing and evening sans shower and $15 poorer from an overpriced breakfast.

Caitlan and I arrived in Chiang Mai early that morning-- our first stop in our journey north. It's special that Saifon, our waitress from the Ayutthaya guest house, had named her daughter New Year-- a symbol for a new beginning. Our arrival in Chiang Mai is a new beginning in the month of our travels-- inching closer to the days we have yet to plan as we develop a fresh part to our journey each step of the way.