Featured Book

Featured Articles

Travel Safety

Featured Advertisers

Hotel Savoy Prague

Sea Kayak Advenures

Search

go

Search By Country:


Search Now:

Experiences

go

Rivers, Elephants, and Whiskey


Two scattered storms rinse off the horizon. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.

When my guide, Awu, said that the scar on his lower arm was the result of being stabbed by his wife, I should have been more concerned. But I just laughed blithely with him about how crazy she must be and didn't pause to consider what it might reveal about him. So instead of running like hell in the opposite direction, I continued with my Thai guide deeper into the forest.

I was on a three-day trek north of Pai at the top of Thailand. I'd read about the circuit of "remote" villages in this area that get overrun with trekking travelers, so I hired an independent guide. We would hike out to his family village – just him, my friend Tracey Lovejoy, and me. No one else would know where we were.

Our first destination was the village where Awu was born and lived until he fled its poverty, heading to the city in pursuit of material success that still eluded him. Awu is a member of the Karen tribe that spread eastward from Burma. The journey began with a four-hour drive towards the spot in the jungle where the road ends and the only way to go farther is on foot. The world peeled away from the edge of the truck as if it were a painting.

Our first stop was a remote village market swollen with colorful veggies, fruits, and fish pulled out of buckets to suffocate on long wooden tables. Awu wanted to stock up on food so that we would not be a burden to our host families. Then it was a short trip to a moss-draped waterfall where the water poured out of the rocks like a thin, white bridal veil. After a luxurious swim we were back on the road, hurtling towards our drop-off point, a spot in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a dense, buzzing forest.

Tracey wades into to the chilly waterfall. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.I wore hiking boots and lathered on both sunscreen and bug spray, while toting bottled water and a camera. My guide was wearing "hiking thongs" and kneeled to drink from rivers that I eyed suspiciously while swigging Evian. Why don't the bugs like the locals? I wondered about this enviously while I scratched at my arms and ankles.

Over the next few hours I saw isolated storms scattered across the horizon. Opium fields and rice paddies were the only other interruptions in the forest. It was steep, rough going, but the shade of the trees, the shimmering rivers, and the sense of isolation were ample reward for the strain.On arriving at Awu’s village, I was handed a filthy pink cup full of warm beer, garnished by two ants clinging precariously to the inside edge. I casually pulled out the ants and took a sip, not wanting to offend my hosts, who flashed shy smiles. Sweat poured down my face. All I wanted was a shower.

There was a makeshift aqueduct that sluiced water from a nearby river to the village. A young Thai woman had just rinsed off behind a towel and was putting on brightly colored traditional clothes. Tracey spied a pair of jeans and a T-shirt by her feet. She later asked Awu if the villagers were putting on their tribal clothes for us. They were. Indeed, as we later walked through the village, we saw all clotheslines full of T-shirts emblazoned with U.S. sports team logos, brightly-colored cotton shorts, and other western staples. Even this fairly remote village was not immune to the lure of Michael Jordan.

Young children, quick to smile, outside their bamboo hut. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.After nightfall, dinner was cooked over a fire in an empty wooden hut. There was no electricity in the village. The only sources of light were the fire and a couple of candles throwing shards of light into pitch- black corners. Villagers came in and out. Sitting quietly in the shadows, they watched us eat while we watched our guide get progressively more drunk. He had a plastic baggy full of wheat-colored whiskey that was fast disappearing. His English became slurred and his topics of conversation more personal.

"You don't know my life," he moaned to us in the flickering light of the fire. He started rubbing Tracey's hand, while she and I became increasingly uneasy and aloof. In our attempt to get off the beaten track, had we gone too far? Two twentysomething American women in the jungle with a guide we picked up off the streets – we didn't know where we were or how to get out. We couldn't speak the local dialect; we were hundreds of miles from a phone. Which is to say – we were totally dependent of the drunken guide.

But the situation produced an element of comedy. Tracey and I had both agreed to write Awu a recommendation at the end of the trip if we had a good experience. So Awu would lean on Tracey – then abruptly back off mumbling (literally),"recommendation, recommendation, um, you like sister to me."

"I am not your sister," Tracey retorted, pushing his hands away.

We were supposed to see some traditional dancing after dinner. Under a black sky, Awu lurched into the trees and we hesitantly followed, not realizing that the dance site was a mile up the mountain. The moon and stars were searingly bright, an important addition to the weak gaze of my small flashlight, the only one for the three of us. We stumbled up the mountain only to arrive at an extinguished fire ring. We had long since missed the dancing. We turned around to begin the walk back to our hut in near total darkness, occasionally heading off in the wrong direction and then doubling back, pausing once to knock at the door of a hut. The knock was answered by two old women holding candles, barely outlined in the shadow of the door. Awu mumbled something to them and they pointed us to the hut where we would stay.

Tracey and I climbed into bed, wondering what to do if Awu became more aggressive. We fell asleep on hard mats under filthy blankets and the heavy cover of a dense night, plagued by uneasy dreams.The next morning we confronted Awu about his drunkenness and threatened to cancel the trip. He immediately apologized, so Tracey and I decided to roll the dice and continue the trip, which made more sense that day than it does in retrospect. We packed quickly for an early start towards a village where the locals would let us ride their elephants. Awu wanted us to get there early to beat the crowds of other tourists. When we arrived, we found a cool, shallow river and a thatched hut with a hand-painted sign offering coke, whiskey, and unmarked candy. But no one was there.

Tracey and I had lunch, a nap, then sat with our feet in the river to do some reading. Three hours later, I looked up to find three elephants gracefully lumbering out of the trees. We climbed into a rickety box on one elephant’s back – way higher up than on a horse, and the wood crate they shoved us in had no seatbelts. This dear pachyderm headed down some steep, narrow inclines as I uneasily assured Tracey that I was sure this elephant had made the journey a thousand times before.

Prime seating came with an elephant’s-eye view. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.There was lots of animal life at the next settlement: pigs, a pack of mangy dogs, chickens running amuck beneath simple wooden huts perched on stilts. We clambered up a thin ladder into the hut where we would stay, empty of everything save heavy mats on the floor. This was home for a shy young couple and their only son, a 2-year-old who wobbled around on the open deck between thatch-covered sleeping rooms. He didn’t have more than twigs and leaves to play with, but he couldn't have been happier. He tottered around, all giggles and smiles. Tracey and I dropped our backpacks, relieved that it was our last night with Awu in the forest. We were hiking out tomorrow.

We headed to a sparkling river close by to bathe and immediately felt invigorated. Then a line of elephants marched in, trumpeting and gorgeous. One proceeded to defecate in the water about 20 feet from us. The illusion of "pristine" shattered, our bath finished abruptly. Nature has no time for idle concepts like "pristine" in the sense that I, having grown up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, am comfortable with.

We returned to the village and climbed into our hideaway. Awu was fixing our dinner and we felt safe staying so close to a family. More elephants turned up. These with ridden bareback by men perched on the animals' giant necks, just behind the ears. The elephants headed to our stilt hut so the riders could speak to our host. I was eye-to-eye with the animals' giant, soft faces. Then they ambled away, heading in the direction we had come from, swallowed by trees and twilight.

An elephant lumbers out of the forest into a small clearing in the jungle. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.Before heading to bed, our guide told us we'd take a river-raft to our pick-up spot the next day. Sure enough, early the next morning Awu ushered us down to the river. Three of the villagers were roping together stalks of bamboo with twine. They wanted us to climb on and see if it would float. It didn't, so they quickly set about lashing on more bamboo. Our guide grabbed a long pole that he could jab into the riverbed and lean on to steer our trusty craft. He gave another pole to Tracey and stationed her at the back. Another stick was propped in the middle of the raft for us to hang our backpacks on. We were assured are gear would be kept dry there.The ride down the river was slow and easy. We were surrounded by forest lining the edge of the water. The insects were at full throttle and sounded eerily like chainsaws screaming warnings to the forest of its enemy. Eventually I got stationed at the front of the raft with the steering stick. Mindful of our cameras and passports, I carefully shoved the stick in at whatever angle I deemed appropriate. I almost tipped us going around a bend in the river. It was a rocky ride over some whitewater, then a narrow miss of exposed rocks. Awu disdainfully took the stick away from me, shooing me to the back of the raft.

It was a hot, languid day and my mind unwound like the river, taking each turn as it came, following the natural bends in the road, seeking the path of least resistance. We arrived at a small village in the late afternoon, itching to stretch our legs. It was a short walk out to the highway, where a beat-up white truck waited to haul us to the city. Our short sojourn into the forest was over. The initial scare with inebriated Awu had turned out to be a small cost for an exceptional glimpse of a beautiful forest. As we started speeding back towards electricity and crowds, I sat in the bed of the truck looking wistfully over my shoulder, watching the glinting river fade into a corner of my memory.

A posse of water buffalo seeks refuge from the heat. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.

When You Go:

The Tourism Authority of Thailand (TAT) is a great source of information for planning your trip. Their address is:

5 World Trade Center, Suite 3443
New York, NY 10048
Tel: 212-432-0433
Fax: 212-912-0920

Visa: No visa is required, but make sure your passport does not expire for at least three months from the time of entry.

Getting There:

To reach Pai, take a bus from Bangkok. Any of the many travel agents on Khao San Road, a street that is backpacker-central in Bangkok, can sell you a direct bus ticket to Pai. It is an overnight trip and a bumpy one. Once you are in Pai, most of the guesthouses act as brokers for treks. There are also small shops/booths scattered throughout town offering treks. It's worth it to shop around and have people explain their route. Ask if you will have the chance to ride elephants and/or raft down any rivers. Also, make sure your guide can speak the dialects of the local tribes. Treks vary from two days to a week.

While you are in Pai, Duang Guest House across from the bus terminal has clean rooms and hot showers. There is no phone, just look for the guesthouse once you get off the bus – you can't miss it.

Other good jump-off spots for treks are Chaing Mai and Chaing Rai, also in northern Thailand. Again, both are accessible by bus from Bangkok from Khao San Road. In Chang Mai, head to the local TAT office for a list of trek operators. TAT is on the Chaing Mai-Lamphun Road near the Nawarat Bridge, Tel.: (248604). In Change Rai, the TAT office is on Singkhai Road, Tel.: (717433). Or just pound the pavement and check out all the small trek operators with stalls downtown.

On arriving at Awu’s village, I was handed a filthy pink cup full of warm beer, garnished by two ants clinging precariously to the inside edge. I casually pulled out the ants and took a sip, not wanting to offend my hosts, who flashed shy smiles. Sweat poured down my face. All I wanted was a shower.

There was a makeshift aqueduct that sluiced water from a nearby river to the village. A young Thai woman had just rinsed off behind a towel and was putting on brightly colored traditional clothes. Tracey spied a pair of jeans and a T-shirt by her feet. She later asked Awu if the villagers were putting on their tribal clothes for us. They were. Indeed, as we later walked through the village, we saw all clotheslines full of T-shirts emblazoned with U.S. sports team logos, brightly-colored cotton shorts, and other western staples. Even this fairly remote village was not immune to the lure of Michael Jordan.

Young children, quick to smile, outside their bamboo hut. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.After nightfall, dinner was cooked over a fire in an empty wooden hut. There was no electricity in the village. The only sources of light were the fire and a couple of candles throwing shards of light into pitch- black corners. Villagers came in and out. Sitting quietly in the shadows, they watched us eat while we watched our guide get progressively more drunk. He had a plastic baggy full of wheat-colored whiskey that was fast disappearing. His English became slurred and his topics of conversation more personal.

"You don't know my life," he moaned to us in the flickering light of the fire. He started rubbing Tracey's hand, while she and I became increasingly uneasy and aloof. In our attempt to get off the beaten track, had we gone too far? Two twentysomething American women in the jungle with a guide we picked up off the streets – we didn't know where we were or how to get out. We couldn't speak the local dialect; we were hundreds of miles from a phone. Which is to say – we were totally dependent of the drunken guide.

But the situation produced an element of comedy. Tracey and I had both agreed to write Awu a recommendation at the end of the trip if we had a good experience. So Awu would lean on Tracey – then abruptly back off mumbling (literally),"recommendation, recommendation, um, you like sister to me."

"I am not your sister," Tracey retorted, pushing his hands away.

We were supposed to see some traditional dancing after dinner. Under a black sky, Awu lurched into the trees and we hesitantly followed, not realizing that the dance site was a mile up the mountain. The moon and stars were searingly bright, an important addition to the weak gaze of my small flashlight, the only one for the three of us. We stumbled up the mountain only to arrive at an extinguished fire ring. We had long since missed the dancing. We turned around to begin the walk back to our hut in near total darkness, occasionally heading off in the wrong direction and then doubling back, pausing once to knock at the door of a hut. The knock was answered by two old women holding candles, barely outlined in the shadow of the door. Awu mumbled something to them and they pointed us to the hut where we would stay.

Tracey and I climbed into bed, wondering what to do if Awu became more aggressive. We fell asleep on hard mats under filthy blankets and the heavy cover of a dense night, plagued by uneasy dreams.The next morning we confronted Awu about his drunkenness and threatened to cancel the trip. He immediately apologized, so Tracey and I decided to roll the dice and continue the trip, which made more sense that day than it does in retrospect. We packed quickly for an early start towards a village where the locals would let us ride their elephants. Awu wanted us to get there early to beat the crowds of other tourists. When we arrived, we found a cool, shallow river and a thatched hut with a hand-painted sign offering coke, whiskey, and unmarked candy. But no one was there.

Tracey and I had lunch, a nap, then sat with our feet in the river to do some reading. Three hours later, I looked up to find three elephants gracefully lumbering out of the trees. We climbed into a rickety box on one elephant’s back – way higher up than on a horse, and the wood crate they shoved us in had no seatbelts. This dear pachyderm headed down some steep, narrow inclines as I uneasily assured Tracey that I was sure this elephant had made the journey a thousand times before.

Prime seating came with an elephant’s-eye view. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.There was lots of animal life at the next settlement: pigs, a pack of mangy dogs, chickens running amuck beneath simple wooden huts perched on stilts. We clambered up a thin ladder into the hut where we would stay, empty of everything save heavy mats on the floor. This was home for a shy young couple and their only son, a 2-year-old who wobbled around on the open deck between thatch-covered sleeping rooms. He didn’t have more than twigs and leaves to play with, but he couldn't have been happier. He tottered around, all giggles and smiles. Tracey and I dropped our backpacks, relieved that it was our last night with Awu in the forest. We were hiking out tomorrow.

We headed to a sparkling river close by to bathe and immediately felt invigorated. Then a line of elephants marched in, trumpeting and gorgeous. One proceeded to defecate in the water about 20 feet from us. The illusion of "pristine" shattered, our bath finished abruptly. Nature has no time for idle concepts like "pristine" in the sense that I, having grown up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, am comfortable with.

We returned to the village and climbed into our hideaway. Awu was fixing our dinner and we felt safe staying so close to a family. More elephants turned up. These with ridden bareback by men perched on the animals' giant necks, just behind the ears. The elephants headed to our stilt hut so the riders could speak to our host. I was eye-to-eye with the animals' giant, soft faces. Then they ambled away, heading in the direction we had come from, swallowed by trees and twilight.

An elephant lumbers out of the forest into a small clearing in the jungle. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.Before heading to bed, our guide told us we'd take a river-raft to our pick-up spot the next day. Sure enough, early the next morning Awu ushered us down to the river. Three of the villagers were roping together stalks of bamboo with twine. They wanted us to climb on and see if it would float. It didn't, so they quickly set about lashing on more bamboo. Our guide grabbed a long pole that he could jab into the riverbed and lean on to steer our trusty craft. He gave another pole to Tracey and stationed her at the back. Another stick was propped in the middle of the raft for us to hang our backpacks on. We were assured are gear would be kept dry there.The ride down the river was slow and easy. We were surrounded by forest lining the edge of the water. The insects were at full throttle and sounded eerily like chainsaws screaming warnings to the forest of its enemy. Eventually I got stationed at the front of the raft with the steering stick. Mindful of our cameras and passports, I carefully shoved the stick in at whatever angle I deemed appropriate. I almost tipped us going around a bend in the river. It was a rocky ride over some whitewater, then a narrow miss of exposed rocks. Awu disdainfully took the stick away from me, shooing me to the back of the raft.

It was a hot, languid day and my mind unwound like the river, taking each turn as it came, following the natural bends in the road, seeking the path of least resistance. We arrived at a small village in the late afternoon, itching to stretch our legs. It was a short walk out to the highway, where a beat-up white truck waited to haul us to the city. Our short sojourn into the forest was over. The initial scare with inebriated Awu had turned out to be a small cost for an exceptional glimpse of a beautiful forest. As we started speeding back towards electricity and crowds, I sat in the bed of the truck looking wistfully over my shoulder, watching the glinting river fade into a corner of my memory.

A posse of water buffalo seeks refuge from the heat. Copyright: Jennifer Hile.

When You Go:

The Tourism Authority of Thailand (TAT) is a great source of information for planning your trip. Their address is:

5 World Trade Center, Suite 3443
New York, NY 10048
Tel: 212-432-0433
Fax: 212-912-0920

Visa: No visa is required, but make sure your passport does not expire for at least three months from the time of entry.

Getting There:

To reach Pai, take a bus from Bangkok. Any of the many travel agents on Khao San Road, a street that is backpacker-central in Bangkok, can sell you a direct bus ticket to Pai. It is an overnight trip and a bumpy one. Once you are in Pai, most of the guesthouses act as brokers for treks. There are also small shops/booths scattered throughout town offering treks. It's worth it to shop around and have people explain their route. Ask if you will have the chance to ride elephants and/or raft down any rivers. Also, make sure your guide can speak the dialects of the local tribes. Treks vary from two days to a week.

While you are in Pai, Duang Guest House across from the bus terminal has clean rooms and hot showers. There is no phone, just look for the guesthouse once you get off the bus – you can't miss it.

Other good jump-off spots for treks are Chaing Mai and Chaing Rai, also in northern Thailand. Again, both are accessible by bus from Bangkok from Khao San Road. In Chang Mai, head to the local TAT office for a list of trek operators. TAT is on the Chaing Mai-Lamphun Road near the Nawarat Bridge, Tel.: (248604). In Change Rai, the TAT office is on Singkhai Road, Tel.: (717433). Or just pound the pavement and check out all the small trek operators with stalls downtown.