Initially I refuse to go with Bruce on a motorcycle ride to Phayao to visit DC and Pai —I am staying home in my nice cool house, reading and writing. He is not going to entice and trick me by saying, “Oh honey, come with me. It’ll be a nice, easy, ride.” Regardless of whether my hubby talks about a “nice, easy ride” on the bicycle or the motorcycle, it is all the same. It is never easy and rarely nice.
First rule of thumb. Bikers talk trash, and they can never be trusted. Either they will drop you with great pleasure (cyclist slang for leaving you in the dust) after falsely assuring you that the ride is an easy spin —a mere “recovery” ride —or they will make you suffer immeasurably trying to keep up.
Bruce is no exception. His speciality is blowing your doors off on steep, nasty, short hills and leap frogging in direct violation of Rule # 38 from www.velominati.com/the-rules. His definition of fun is the kind where your hair sticks to your scalp in a plastered-down, hot oily mess and vehicles blow smelly fumes in your face. Your face glows demonic red from exertion and ghastly pale white from exhaustion all at the same time. Your feet burn. Your clothing sticks to you and your bum chafes. Never mind that you put gobs of Hoo-Ha Ride Glide on your Betty Boo Down There.
However, because I try my best to refer to Rule #5, “Harden the F___ Up,” in deference to the gods of cycling yore, I acquiesce once again to my dear husband’s siren song. Besides, the clincher is that Pai is taking us on a visit to her home village of Ban Pin, about 33 km south of Phayao. Like a dutiful patient being led to electroshock therapy, I don my full face helmet, leather jacket, boots, and gloves, and climb on the back of the red devil Honda.
First rule of thumb. Bikers talk trash, and they can never be trusted. Either they will drop you with great pleasure (cyclist slang for leaving you in the dust) after falsely assuring you that the ride is an easy spin —a mere “recovery” ride —or they will make you suffer immeasurably trying to keep up.
Bruce is no exception. His speciality is blowing your doors off on steep, nasty, short hills and leap frogging in direct violation of Rule # 38 from www.velominati.com/the-rules. His definition of fun is the kind where your hair sticks to your scalp in a plastered-down, hot oily mess and vehicles blow smelly fumes in your face. Your face glows demonic red from exertion and ghastly pale white from exhaustion all at the same time. Your feet burn. Your clothing sticks to you and your bum chafes. Never mind that you put gobs of Hoo-Ha Ride Glide on your Betty Boo Down There.
However, because I try my best to refer to Rule #5, “Harden the F___ Up,” in deference to the gods of cycling yore, I acquiesce once again to my dear husband’s siren song. Besides, the clincher is that Pai is taking us on a visit to her home village of Ban Pin, about 33 km south of Phayao. Like a dutiful patient being led to electroshock therapy, I don my full face helmet, leather jacket, boots, and gloves, and climb on the back of the red devil Honda.
The start is relatively pleasant, the morning air deceptively cool. We pass rice field after rice field, lush with recent rains, and ripe for harvesting.
After stopping in Phayao to pick up our friends and have a caffeine fix at Love Station Coffee,
L to R: Dave (who maps roads in northern Thailand for a hobby, Pai, DC & Bruce
we climb back on the motorcycles and head south. Juxtaposed against mountains to the north and east, the roads gently wind to the small village of Ban Pin.
DC and Pai lead the charge
Not only does Pai’s extended family greet us with coconut drinks from their backyard,
they bring heaps of food for an unexpected and delicious lunch treat.
Pai's brother-in-law, Sit, kindly cooks for us
L to R: chicken roll nuggets (gai jaw), salad, soup (chinese origin ), fried chicken, a variety of dipping sauces, blackberries, red berries, fried rice
Yanni, a most engaging chap from Switzerland, was also at the gathering for his weekly English lesson with the village children. Yanni was married to a Thai woman for 11 plus years, but, as the relationship deteriorated, he found solace and distraction in teaching young children, and thus he has stayed in the village after the divorce. Eventually, he knows he will need to leave Thailand as visa requirements become more difficult and complex but until that time, he stays.
Yanni uses creative demonstration techniques in his teaching
Yanni also uses a white board and an e-tablet. Girl in red dress is Pai's niece, Moy.
One of the students creeps up to my back with a large cricket - I am not sure if the cricket is dead or alive - and chases me around the yard to everyone’s laughter. Then he promptly shoves the cricket in his mouth and swallows it, the legs of the cricket hanging out of his mouth as he giggles hysterically.
Pai gives me a tour of her childhood home, a Thai wood home with open windows and no screens, a concrete addition, big courtyard, outdoor kitchen under the main house, complete with a noodle shop, abandoned vehicles, satellite dish, TV, dog, chickens, water tank, and drying rice.
Back of the house, with Buddhist alter
Looking down from the second floor onto the courtyard
Pai and her father, Lha, a very sweet man with a contagious smile, with rice harvested from the family fields. In the background, Sit picks black and red berries from a tree in their courtyard.
Outdoor kitchen, under the house where it is cool. Thanks, Pai, for doing the clean-up
The house has three bathrooms: two directly attached to the house, and one by the noodle shop
Front entrance; note bamboo hand railing, "guard" dog
Sleeping and TV area (TV in corner, not pictured); no screens on windows
Looking across the immaculate top floor into the semi-outdoor bath area
A pot of hot water, ready to cook noodles for soup in the outdoor restaurant area. Many Thai homes have noodle shops
Looking into the noodle shop from the front courtyard. Washing machine, courtesy of Pai and her 2 sisters, on the right (covered with green checkered blanket) in front of the outdoor bathroom
Pai's mother, Piw
Village boys swing in one of several bamboo swings, made by Pai's talented father.
Pai oversaw the cement addition to the house, much cooler than the wood areas; prerequisite mosquito net and fan
We bid our goodbyes and give our best wais.
Pai, sister Pu, and Pu's toddler pose for a pic before Pu leaves
Note Mr Rooster scratching around to the right. He would not let me catch him.
Back in the saddle again. Lha and Pai's sister Pun
Suffice it to say that my dear husband does not listen to DC’s directions on how to return home, and, like a fool, neither do I. Neither do we ask the king of maps, Dave. As we leave the village, the sun fries us on our left sides, casting long shadows as we pass soi dogs and shops and bicycles, heading northwest.
Dogs of the soi, one of many. The lucky ones are adopted.
Typical store front of someone's home, and the ever-present soi dog
Every town has a picture of the King and Queen
Heading home, or so we think Then, oh no! now the sun's burning up our back sides because we are erroneously going east, which warrants a belated phone call to DC for further directions. Feeling doomed, we schlep south, backtracking with the sun laser-beaming our right sides until we are finally northbound again with the sun spiraling downwards, along with our moods. We arrive home thoroughly baked. What should be a two-hour trip has turned into a Mad Max four-hour odyssey. By this time, I want to rip off my full face shield helmet, rip my beloved's head off as well, trash my leathers along the road in violation of Rule # 77, and ride naked and screaming down the road. Will I never learn? I guess I should refer myself to Rule # 81 - never talk it up, and as always, Rule # 5.
After all, we did get home alive, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Pai and her gracious family for a truly wonderful day in the village. Khob khun ka (thank-you).
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