Problems in Nepal and recent terror bombings in Southern Thailand have intensified security to unprecedented levels. All bags and purses are triple X-rayed and passengers pat-searched a dozen times before boarding. Aware of the reasons why, no one complains. Except for Australia, every country left on my itinerary is in some type of violent turmoil. Worse yet — terrorism now seems like an acceptable risk.
Nine weeks late, Brad arrives tomorrow. Our dream of riding together for a month out of every three has been derailed by his erratic company schedules and deadlines. He’s as addicted to business as I am to adventure. After 11 days, he’ll be sucked back into the arena of corporate America, dodging and dueling the sharks seeking the upper hand. I haven’t abandoned my quest to lure him from a suffocating workload. I’ve got a week and a half to change his mind.
SOUTHEAST ASIA
Riding North
April 9, 2005
On the Road in Northern Thailand
Like stepping into a sauna of steamy tropical flavors, the first thing you sense when the aircraft door unseals is an overpowering gulp of fragrant, waterlogged air. Throughout the city, massive air conditioners pump around the clock, sucking out tons of moisture while changing the atmospheres of contemporary office buildings and multilevel shopping malls. When you return outside, trying to inhale is like trying to breathe underwater.
Welcome to Bangkok, capital of Thailand — the City of Angels in the Land of a Thousand Smiles. Silently communicating using practiced facial gestures, depending on preceding events, a smile can mean hello, goodbye, go to hell or let’s make love. Following ancient traditions of saving face, Thais would rather yield than risk conflict and humiliation. In the West, traffic mishaps often end in road rage, or at least venting with jabbing middle fingers. Here, negative energy is redirected and confrontation is avoided — also fundamental to Asian martial arts.
Thousands of makeshift alleyway food stalls conveniently appear wherever humans congregate. From outside government offices to busy street corners, sweet-smelling fresh fruit stands and sizzling mini-barbecues tease the senses for closer inspections. No need to pack a lunch when going to work. At factory entrances, lines of vendors peddle the same food listed on menus of expensive Thai restaurants and dish out delightful bargain meals on rickety curbside tables from improvised kitchens.
Piercing scents of fresh-cut vegetables and sinus-clearing spices permeate thick, humid air, while skilled street chefs deftly combine ingredients to produce the flaming flavors soon to explode inside your mouth. Sizzling woks with boiling meats and stir-fried noodles send up clouds of scorching vapors strong enough to burn your eyes. None sit idle, and there is always a line of drooling patrons.
Bangkok, the capital of Siam, is also a world capital for foreign intrigue and international espionage. From black market weapons brokers to hedonistic pleasure palaces, you can purchase either a shoulder-fired rocket or sexual favors from well-trained, perfectly formed women or men of any age. Hidden down smog-choked alleyways, discreet signs promise to satisfy every need and to massage whatever body parts ache for relief. Yet, spirituality dominates this culture with ancient beliefs and sacred rites. Reclining Buddha statues and elaborate temples corral the faithful in a spectacular display of religious conviction.
But Bangkok is a brutally overcrowded city and a biker’s frightmare of clogged traffic arteries and stifling heat. Yesterday afternoon, the Blue Beast was serviced and given fresh tires, so by the time Brad arrived we were chomping at the grips to ride north into the cooler, less-populated tribal highlands. After four hours of confusing attempts to escape the city, the elongated dual-lane highway empties, and we twist our throttles for a blast into the haze of a fiery sunset.
Bangkok bustle gives way to meandering country roads and smiling rice paddy workers strolling home from their labor. Herds of hulking water buffalo lounge roadside, ominous reminders to remain alert. Speeding motorcyclists would have better luck colliding with brick walls.
The weeklong holiday of Song Khran marks the beginning of the Thai new year with festivals of water wars and painted faces. To wash away sins, mini-trucks packed with giggling teens scoop buckets of water from 50-gallon drums to fling at one another and anyone who gets in the way. With cameras zipped inside our jackets, we white-line between cars, ducking sprays and the gleeful shouts of pearly toothed, laughing children.
Once again, time is our biggest concern. In nine days, Brad reluctantly returns to corporate America, so we’ll milk the most from every moment.
Northern Thailand
April 18, 2005
Doi Ang Kong, Thailand
When I recall the better moments in life, times when I’ve thought, “Today can’t get any better than this,” I realize that they’ve all been spent rolling somewhere on two wheels. But the next best thing to traveling the world is spending quality time with my brother. Showing Brad a real taste of the country and culture would take months, so we settle for covering as much ground as possible, off-road. The section of highway we had been seeking finally appears outside the last small town — the end of pavement. Ahead are long days of riding ridgelines and stopping wherever we like to overnight in jungle villages.
A thick, overcast sky protects us from a blazing tropical sun as we spiral upwards, spinning our tires over dizzying mountain dirt tracks while kicking up layers of powdery orange clay. Hugging the Burmese border as close as we dare, we’re careful not to drift too far. Refugee tribesmen have directed us to trails not shown on maps, but the black triangle on my GPS indicates we’re nearing the forbidden line. With the chaos of ethnic feuding in the heart of opium country, it’s unlikely either army patrols or drug warlord mercenaries would accept our explanations for stumbling over the border.
Boiled-noodle breaks and rest stops with inquisitive natives prove as rewarding as they were when I visited 20 years ago. Villagers are shy at first, but after breaking the ice practicing my slowly returning Thai phrases, talkative elders approach us to investigate. Soon we’re surrounded by quacking youngsters eager to talk and pose for pictures. Brad is captivated by the sincerity and simplicity of strangers offering such friendship. This is just a hint of what’s ahead, but already the stress lines on his face are fading.
And the fascination is constant. The border regions of Thailand are safe havens for persecuted victims fleeing neighboring massacres and inter-tribal violence. In Doi Ang Kong, we visited a government-sponsored agricultural project where refugee hill-tribe people are taught how to grow plants other than opium poppies. At nearly 6,000 feet, experimental fruit orchards mature alongside bonsai gardens and hydroponic greenhouses. The climate here is typical of a tribal natural habitat, and the program directors are hopeful their current students will someday return to teach others.
Dampness from early morning fog settles the sticky orange dust thrown from grinding tires, and the air is cool enough to require we zip up our nylon riding suits. A parched jungle lies further north as our heads fill with growing scents of pungent green. As we corkscrew up and down the steepest roads in Asia, the foliage alters from broad-leafed banana trees to towering pines. It’s the end of the dry season, and soon nourishing monsoon rains will return the land to the vibrancy of pulsating tropical cycles.
The only bike available to rent in Bangkok was a 1,300cc heavyweight street Honda, but Brad manages to wrestle it over yawning ruts and washed-out ravines. By the end of the day we’ve seen only two trucks, packed with natives chugging their way south. Outside the tribal villages, the jungle belongs to us and billions of roaring insects. Exhausted by nightfall, directly after a dinner of chicken and rice, we plunge into comatose sleep until crowing roosters inspecting our bikes rouse us with a start.
There’re only three more days before our parting in Chiang Mai. I tempt him with dreams of quiet nights in Laotian villages slurping on fresh diced mango and sweet sticky rice. The first of his corporate meetings are sched
uled within hours of landing in Los Angeles, while my life here continues to be about flipping coins to decide the next alluring destination. Soon enough, summer rains and meandering side roads will once again guide me softly past the equator, into another hemisphere of unfamiliar pleasures.
Brad
April 21, 2005
Chiang Mai, Thailand
Planning our limited time down to the minute, Brad and I are meeting our goals and hitting our intended targets like well-behaved, seasoned adventure travelers. Seven days of jungle trails, remote villages and Tribal peoples have hardly been sufficient, but we’re accomplishing more than we initially thought possible. Despite our gentle rush, we’re enjoying a decent balance of twisting tarmac and up-on-the-pegs dirt tracking with balmy afternoons and chilly mountain evenings. Built by the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers, the Friendship Highway loops around Northern Thailand’s jungle peaks with racetrack-quality banked curves carving through mind-blowing forested terrain. Riding on- or off-road anywhere in this rural region is motorcycle bliss — because the metropolitan areas also have their allure.
After roaming Southeast Asia in the ’80s, I returned to California with stories of the best motorcycling roads on earth and an undefeatable style of kickboxing that was far superior to anything seen in the West. Skeptical road dogs and martial arts buddies rolled their eyes at my wild tales of drifting across Southeast Asia encountering lethal Muay Thai boxers. Theses days, Muay Thai dominates the televised no-holds-barred fighting events and a proliferation of motorcycle rental shops in Chaing Mai cater to adventure riders. We’re using the same guidebook I bought 18 years ago to select and explore old routes. Most of the dirt is now paved, but the steep hairpins and scenic landscape remain unchanged.
Every day, new tribal villagers welcome us in unfamiliar tongues as the men from Mars in space-age plastic clothing, while inquisitive youngsters surround us. Graceful, long-necked women eye us with suspicion, and, no matter our efforts, can’t be coaxed into a ride. Each year, Kayan tribal women add additional solid-brass collar rings below their jawbones in an effort to create a longer neck. But in reality, the metal tubes merely push their shoulders down, creating a visual effect. Having sung the praises of Asia for years, it’s a dream fulfilled to share these scenes with Brad. Northern Thailand provides the ultimate contrast in a provocative cultural buffet with spicy aftertastes that lasts a lifetime. Crossing worlds plants the deepest seeds.
Brad flies home from Bangkok in two days, and this morning I reluctantly sent him riding south to the airport alone. The new highway is a straight shot with signs marked in English, but there is always the chance of a mishap. Having counted the minutes until he arrived, now, after less than two weeks, he’s moving from dirt-floor noodle stands to the helm of his empire as the world’s biggest franchisee of Gold’s Gyms. I urge him to stay: “Damn the business Bro, let’s ride.” But in the tug-of-war between running off into wander-land and corporate responsibilities, I lose.
Karen tribal woman hitching a motorcycle ride in Northern Thailand
Art
May 1, 2005
Mae Sai, Thailand
When I rode through Southeast Asia in the ’80s, there was never any fanfare over international motorcycle travel. A few anxious friends waited patiently at home for letters that often got lost in cluttered mail rooms or primitive postal systems. There was no Internet for uploading daily journals, checking weather reports or managing affairs at home. When I was able to find a machine, I faxed intended routes to a friend in California. If he didn’t hear from me within a few months, he would know approximately where I’d disappeared. Back then GPS was restricted to military use, yet I still eventually managed to find the next unmarked turnoff or realize when I had passed it altogether.
At that time, big-bore bikes were illegal in Thailand, so I shipped a 1985 Yamaha V-Max from California to Penang, Malaysia, to sneak across the border along a notorious smuggling route. Off I rode, using gas station maps written in unfamiliar languages while gawking at road signs trying to memorize their mystifying symbols. A purple metal-flake helmet kept most of the wicked monsoon rains at bay, and a small set of throw-over nylon saddlebags held an extra set of dry clothes and canned food. Spare parts were unavailable.
Fast forward into the cyber-age, where long-riders can remain in constant contact with each other — ahead or behind, with hardly a week passing without an exchange of message of some kind. Using Internet connections in major cities, we can update each other on border problems, road conditions and civil disturbances. Yet even with the high-tech advantages, there’re still enough unknowns to keep the journey challenging. Almost every developing nation is in turmoil and subject to sudden violence from rebels or governments. Bridges and roads still wash out, while earthquakes, typhoons or equipment failures always arrive when least expected. Still, alien cultures and fascinating traditions continue to dazzle even the most experienced wanderer.
For the last several weeks, I had been exchanging email, with a Canadian rider touring Viet Nam and heading for Thailand via Laos. Art Kernaghan began writing to me after reading my website and discovering we were traveling the same region. Gradually, we modified our routes to rendezvous near the Thai border. He told me he was riding an aging Belarus-built Minsk, but other than envisioning just another off-brand motorbike, I couldn’t picture it.
Several days past our last communication, while cutting through an arcade parking lot, a long-haired man with a Canadian accent steps in front of my bike. “Glen Heggstad! Striking Viking! It’s me — Art Kernaghan!” We spent the next few hours like old friends, ranting about recent routes and adventures.
I tried hard not to laugh when I saw the $150 clanker he’d been riding from Saigon. Guided by the sympathetic hands of fate, this young man from Toronto had somehow passed through the twisting mountains of Laos into the Land of Smiles. Grinning with pride, he stood chest-out, displaying his smoking two-stroke 12 horsepower 125cc sputtering weed-whacker on two wheels. Motorcyclists call these wheezing rattletraps Rat Bikes.
On one side of the bike, village-made steel racks supported a plastic beer crate packed with tools and spare parts, while on the other, a backpack was held firm with overstretched bungee cords. Oil seeped from gaskets, a red taillight lens was taped on and a dimly lit headlight only functioned some of the time. He explained that most of the flickering electronics on the bike had been “sorted out” and that the dubiously thin cables should hold. In a grimy Vietnamese bike shop, one American dollar bought a new clutch, a few more to straighten bent forks and purchase two locally manufactured tires that might last if he kept the speed down.
Now that Art is an official adventure traveler, he’s also better informed about wolves in sheeps’ clothing. Southeast Asian tourist areas are populated by varieties of destitute expatriates just waiting for the inexperienced to arrive from the West. Most had originally been seduced by the easygoing lifestyle and ready access to cheap sex with young women. After discovering that their new girlfriends were still married to their pimps, they often turned to alcohol and drank themselves into early graves. Constantly on the lookout for new hustles, these loser parasites sucker newcomers into buying failing bars, investing in bogus building projects or promise to save people money by showing them around. Most are skillful enough to secure temporary loans from the trusting, never to be repaid.
Shortly after departing Ho Chi Minh City, Art at least had the presence of mind to dump his new best friend expat tour guide before being soaked too much. Depressed and alone, he’d throw up his arms in defeat. And until stopping to speak with other Western travelers, he’d been headed back to Viet Nam to fly home. But roving Australian strangers had provided much-needed inspiration. “Never give up mate — keep riding. You don’t need anyone but yourself.”
Art’s destination is south and mine north, but we’re having so much fun exploring the spices of Thai nightlife, we opt to zigzag
together for a while. Side by side, we growl and sputter amid blue plumes of wing-ding-ding-ding through bustling city streets at a rampaging 20 miles per hour.
Last night, a midnight monsoon shower had pinned us down in a roadside noodle stand, recounting our failed attempts to coax two lean-bodied Burmese girls into all-night massage lessons. Using sign language and pigeon Thai, we made decent headway until making the mistake of mentioning that we were only passing through, a flashing red light to security-seeking local babes. Within moments, our sure-things in tight jeans and bulging blouses faded into tasty kisses goodbye. Vagabonds on the prowl bite the dust. For the last few days we’ve been the Asian 21st-century version of Easy Rider and Route 66, but tomorrow Art rides the dirt toward Burma while I find the windiest road to Laos.
The fact that he made it this far is astounding; that he’s continuing, oblivious to the potential mishaps is admirable. To Art Kernaghan, the glass is always half full. Defying the laws of physics, he bobs and weaves across Thailand with inspired determination and blind faith. He can make it because he believes he can.
Down the Mae Khong
May 7, 2005
Huay Xai, Laos
The only way I could leave the comforting fantasy that is Thailand was by vowing to return later via Cambodia on my way to Malaysia. For the last month, Thailand has been the proverbial port in the storm lone travelers crave — the communication in a familiar tongue, the endless smorgasbord of exotic cuisine and the swapping of smiles with a steady stream of accommodating women. World famous traditional Thai massage was even available on side street corners in every small town. For two bucks an hour, shriveled women with steel sinew fingers will poke and press my aching back muscles back into their original shape. And no matter their mood, everyone smiles.
One More Day Everywhere Page 23