Ye olde lech >> Travel: Laos, Myanmar, Thailand 25

Oct 25: Night, Chiang Rai

We have just changed our room because the aircon in the old one was dripping water, industrial-size plops marring the pristine terracotta floor. The lady proprietor was most dismayed because her guesthouse was only three months old. Hers was no doubt the messier problem; we simply moved into a new room.

Baan Worabodee is a charming, lovely place - warm wood, white walls and potted greenery in strategic spots, surrounded by a neat little garden, where you can have breakfast or drinks.

We found our guesthouse by accident. Exiting the bus station, we walked down the main street. A short distance later, we saw a cloth banner advertising Baan Worabodee and recalled the tiny picture we saw in a tourist info magazine advertising this guesthouse. We decided to give this one a try and headed into a side street. There, we found Baan Worabodee, tucked in a quiet neighbourhood.

In contrast, our bus ride from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai was anything but tranquil. Our bus was packed. An hour before Chiang Rai, we stopped to pick up stranded passengers from an earlier bus, leaving the expired vehicle and its forlorn driver to wait for mechanical aid by the side of the road. Further down the road, our driver stopped for more passengers. Feet filled the narrow aisle.

Then, trouble started. A man with wispy white beard was among the last load of passengers to board the bus. He stowed his banjo on the luggage rack above the passenger seats. When the bus moved, his musical instrument fell on the stunned passengers, a woman with a boy, seating beneath the rack. He seemed to find that funny although no one else was laughing with him. Except for the outraged woman, everyone simply looked away.

Chuckling, he removed the banjo from their laps and wedged it more firmly against other bags on the rack. The woman stared at him and he shuffled across the crowded aisle to stand slightly behind my seat. Unless I turned my head, I could only see him from the corner of my eye.

First, he leaned against the back of my seat. Then, he began to use me as his personal padded seat, rubbing and resting his ample bum on my shoulder. When I pushed him off, he sidled away. But, scant seconds later, he was back, resting even more of his body on me.

A silent battle ensured. I pushed him away and inched closer to Annie, who sat next to me. He withdrew but was back again. The more I moved away from him, the further he slided forward. Any further and he might as well sit on my shoulder or slide into my lap!

By the third skirmish, Annie realised what was happening. "What's wrong?"

While I was still wondering if I should escalate this struggle and make some verbal protest, my friend turned and looked up at the old man.

"Don't touch her! We don't like to be touched!"

Our reading material said that it was impolite to raise your voice in anger. But, we also knew that men should not touch women, especially those they did not know, in public. Well, I had tried to get rid of my problem quietly. We were not willing to suffer in silence for the next hour.

Annie's firm words ricocheted off the shocked faces of nearby passengers. They stared, but her warning worked. When some passengers alighted, the old man moved off, muttering, far away from us, to the rear of the bus.

Meanwhile, the equally careless young man beside the old man, who had been knocking my knees and bumping into other standing female passengers even when the bus was moving sedately and fairly smoothly, suddenly decided it would be more prudent not to be so cavalier about touching the opposite sex. And the rest of the men were were also very careful about bumping into me as they moved along the aisle.

One even apologised when he had to step into the tiny space between me and the front seat to let passengers who were leaving walked through the aisle. He was so careful that he managed the feat without touching my knees.

I notice it is usually the guys who choose to impose on the women. We have not seen a female taking the same sort of liberties. Fortunately, for every obnoxious man, there is another who still practices decorum in public and we have happily benefitted from such gallantry.

The Chinese have a saying: When at home, you rely on family; when away, you rely on friends. Without the kindness of strangers, our travel would have been less.

Made in China in Greece

Travelling from a tiny city-state like Singapore to almost anywhere else always gives me the sense that the world is a big, big, place. Sometimes, though, it is as if we are travelling around a global village: Made-in-China souvenirs in shops at Athens' Plaka; Thai-made clothes in Johor Baru's shopping centres; Malaysian produce and pastries in neighbourhood shops in the heart of Singapore's public housing estates.

Today, we met some guys who had shared a taxi with us in Bagan. And we have been bumping into other travellers we have met earlier these past weeks. Perhaps it is not so much that the world seems smaller, but that our traveller circuit remains small.

You never know when you might run into another familiar face. That is fun. There is something quite carefree about meeting new friends for a few hours to chat over drinks or a meal in a foreign country, knowing we are all simply passing through and that we may or may not meet again.

Budget (for two in baht)

Oct 24
Room >> B550 + Songthaew to Wieng Kum Kam >> B40 + Donation >> B20 + Songthaew to Chiang Mai >> B20 + Lunch >> B50 + Tea >> B35 + Dinner >> B130 + Coffee & dessert >> B77

Oct 25
Songthaew to Chiang Mai bus station >> B40 + Bus to Chiang Rai >> B154 + Toilet >> B6 + Pau (2 steamed buns) >> B12 + Room >> B350 + Lunch >> B70 + Ice-cream (Swensen's) >> B78 + Dinner >> B30 + Cake >> B20

Next... To Chiang Saen we go