THERE’S an old traveller’s saying that the best places are the hardest to reach. After I hit the 5th hour of a gut-churning series of switchbacks, steep drops and gaping potholes I’m hoping this little homily rings true. With each twist and turn of the journey along this northern Thai road my stomach flips, head spins and bones judder. The driver grins maniacally as he wrestles his mini-van around each corner, stopping occasionally to smash a hammer into something at the back of his vehicle. I wonder if it’s the brakes.
The hills of northern Thailand (© Andrew Spooner)
That’s not to say there’s no pleasure in driving through this part of Thailand. With its ethnic diversity, plunging skyline, rapid waters and thick impenetrable forests, northern Thailand has always seemed apart from the dynamic cut and thrust of Bangkok and the gaudy southern Thais. The distinct Lisu, Akha, Shan, Karen and Hmong peoples that populate this tapestry of hills and valleys merge with a series of ancient mountain principalities – many of which didn’t become part of Thailand until the 20th Century. Add in a soothing somnolent ambience and it is easy to see why northern Thailand is becoming a firm fixture on most visitors’ itineraries.
When I first visited the north 22 years ago, it was a tiny motorcycle that took me to the elusive spots that have now become thronged with “boutique” guesthouses, tie-dye, Bob Marley and banana pancakes. Even Chiang Mai, now home to several luxury hotels that have packaged and Disneyfied northern Thai culture, had an air of dusty charm. And if you headed into the hills it felt like the Wild East – bullet holes peppered each and every road sign while the Thai army frequently buzzed overhead in their US sponsored helicopters looking for heroin warlords.
These days it’s much safer, though there is still a genuine sense of adventure in completing the 7-hour journey to Mae Hong Son even if darkness has long enveloped the beauty of the north. My driver, eager to get on with his journey back to Chiang Mai, deposits me outside the cold, deserted airport on the edge of town. I’m tired, hungry, tetchy, still have another 2-hour drive to my final destination at the village of Muang Pon and after waiting 45 minutes for my second lift, feel a bit miserable.
I sit on the kerb absorbing the smells of a nearby fried chicken stall and chat in a mixture of broken Thai and English to the security guards. After what seems an age of mangled syntax a battered Toyato Camry swings into view. “Mr. Andrew?” says an anxious looking woman as she climbs out of car, “very sorry for being so late.”
I’m introduced to both driver, Khun Miaow, and passenger, Ood, and we set off into the night. “Are you hungry?” asks Ood. At this point all I want to do is go to sleep. “Would you like banana roti?” she says and hands me a warm, sweet smelling wrapper. I quickly forget my tiredness as I devour the first of three pancake-like rotis, each filled with butter-fried, condensed milk-smothered bananas. It’s perfect comfort food and my tetchy mood quickly subsides.
Both Ood and Khun Miaow are ethnic Shan. They also run the Muang Pon homestay project where I’ll be spending the next few days. A welcome relief to the alienated world of hotel chains, golf courses, resorts and backpacker lairs, homestays are springing up all over northern Thailand. Rather than traipsing through the remote communities of the north on hackneyed “hilltribe” treks, several villages are now offering tourists a chance to have genuine encounters with their differing cultures.
My first encounter with Shan culture revolves around a well-deserved rest, followed by a stonking breakfast of rice, succulent pork curry and vegetables. I’m staying in Ood’s engagingly ramshackle wooden house, on the edge of the village, just opposite the local school where she works as a teacher.
This is part one of a two-part story – read the second installment here.
Andrew Spooner is the co-author of Footprint’s guide to Chiang Mai and Northern Thailand.
