Fast Facts
Days total - 11
Days on water - 8 plus
(first and last days were minimal, one day rest)
Distance linear - ca. 160 km.
Hours paddling: 50.5
Paddle strokes - est. 130,000
Weight lost - 1.5 kg.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
It is easy to have doubts about setting off on an adventure. Especially when steely clouds color the sky and streaking horizontal raindrops pelt the windshield.
As the bus wound its way
up the foothills south of Chom Thong, I closed the window to stay
dry. In my 40 kilos of baggage, including a 25 kilo inflatable
kayak, I had neither a raincoat nor a tent. The rainy season had
officially ended months ago. So I wasn't fully prepared for the
weather on this adventure, my first long river trip.
Getting off the bus in
Hot, about 100 km south of Chiang Mai, I found myself filled with
indecision. It was one pm. Now what do I do? I noticed that our bus had passed
over a tributary leading to the Ping river a couple minutes ago.
Should I walk back to it and scout it out? Or, should I take a room
at the guesthouse for a night, prepare for the journey, and depart
tomorrow?
I did neither. Instead, a
man who rode the bus with me engaged me in conversation, and said he
would walk with me to the river, about one kilometer further on. So,
as is often the case, the situation itself placed its weighty thumb
on the scale and the decision was made. We walked along the road,
skirting the flooded hollows. The one kilometer to the river became
two, then three, as I pulled my gear on a handcart behind me.
The Ping river runs the
full length of Northern Thailand. It begins in the far reaches of the
Daen Lao mountains on the Burmese border and flows south through
Chiang Mai. As it flows on to Hot much of the
water is drained off through a series of dams to irrigate rice
paddies. Eventually, at Nakhon Sawan, it confluences with the Nan
river, at which point it reinvents itself as the Chao Phraya river. From there
it runs through Bangkok, and empties into the Bay of Thailand. My
goal was to paddle from Hot to Tak, about 150 km to the south, as the
crow flies.
View Thailand kayak trip - Hot to Tak in a larger map
View Thailand kayak trip - Hot to Tak in a larger map
Crows fly; rivers flow.
They meander and are sometimes dammed. Named after the reigning king,
Bhumibol hydroelectric dam blocks the Ping river about 50 km north of
Tak. It creates an artificial lake of unusual shape and length.
At the northern end (near
Hot) and southern end (near Tak) are two large lake-like bodies,
which are connected by a narrow shoestring of water with a couple
right angle bends. Corners in the river, these bends let you
determine your location on a map fairly easily.
But there is no sustained
current to aid in conveying a kayaker southward. The remaining water
in the Ping river south of Hot drains into the reservoir, like a faucet dripping in a giant bathtub.
Motorized land travel entails nothing more than placing your body in a vehicle and letting technology take over. Kayaking on a reservoir was more akin to cycling, where you had to expend energy to get where you were going; pedal or paddle.
Motorized land travel entails nothing more than placing your body in a vehicle and letting technology take over. Kayaking on a reservoir was more akin to cycling, where you had to expend energy to get where you were going; pedal or paddle.
Many times I had stared at the map of northern Thailand wondering what this elongated reservoir held - besides water - for those who ventured along its curious length. Internet research revealed nothing. The baby blue line representing the Ping spoke to me in an imaginary way, silent as a mime, yet beckoning me with its squiggly gesticulations. It was left to me to interpret its meaning, to ball up this blue line, throw it into the air, and decipher its content once it landed. Indeed, what was it like to kayak from Hot to Tak?
******
In Chiang Mai I had hitchhiked from the Kayak Club to the southern entrance to the old city to catch the bus to Hot. Jesse had picked me up.
Get in the back. I go to
the hospital first. Deliver some bread. Ten minutes.
At the hospital he bought
me green tea, and gave me a roll filled with bean paste.
I am the pianist here. I
play soft songs, for therapy. I know many songs, thousands. Beatles,
Stones. That's why I can speak English. I am also the pastor of my
church.
You know the end of the
world is near. Last night I saw many things in my head, I hear God
speaking to me, not in English, another language. I saw big fire
come, destroy everything. People on their knees. He told me to spread
the word. You are the first foreigner. I don't know if you tell this
story. Last night I cry when I hear this story.
Maybe he was a believer
in the Mayan apocalypse, sure to arrive on 21 December. He drank his
tea in two gulps, set the paper cup on a ledge and we drove off. But
the gods, Mayan or otherwise, had already started their mischief. A
policeman pulled us over. Jesse tried stuffing a bill into the cop's
pocket. But the officer did not accept the money. A voice from a
higher authority said, Next time wear your safety belt. After issuing
Jesse a citation, the policeman waved us on.
I had been thinking long
and hard, sometimes longer and harder, about kayaking the Mekong. Not
in its entirety, but along the Laotian – Thai border, from Houayxai
to Cambodia, then into the delta in Viet Nam. After all, if you have
river current, kayaking is easy. As Nike implores us, Just Do It. Pop
your butt in the boat and go. You don't even have to paddle. You can
be like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, „drifting“ into your
future self. No expertise required.
Nevertheless, a
cautionary voice informed me that it might be better if first I got some
experience before Mekonging it. That's what this trip was
about, getting experience before drifting into the new year. And,
before Pinging it from Hot to Tak, for three days I scooted around on the Ngat dam reservoir fifty kilometers north of Chiang Mai.
Day 1 – 28 November (1.5 hours; Depart Hot)
When we finally arrived at the Ping river in Hot, I was surprised to see many people gathered at the bridge. In Chiang Mai, the festival Loy Kratong had recently ended. But in Hot, this was the main day. Dragon boat races on the river, food and drink, all to pay homage to the water goddess, Phra Mae Khongkha. I could not have chosen a more auspicious day for my departure.
The festival's officials were most helpful. They drove me back into town to buy additional provisions for the trip, gave me plates of noodles and rice, and let me prepare my boat on the bank in front of seated dignitaries. The emcee even announced my departure, and as I set off, the crowd bade me farewell. It was four pm.
My newly found friends estimated it would take me a week to reach the dam. The food I bought was not only some of my favorite, but non-perishable: six kilos of müsli, ten tins of tuna,
and a kilo of peanuts. From my map I knew of at least two villages
located along the route, Doi Tao and Ban Ko, where I could stock up.
Also, I had six 1.5 liter bottles of water. With cotton balls and
iodine tincture, I was prepared to purify the water from the
reservoir if necessary.
Dragon boat race in Hot |
With the thunderstorm
long gone, I had felt reasonably sure that I would not face rain this
night. But already dark clouds were visible to the east. And soon a
light shower fell, a harbinger of what the night held.
The level of the Ping
river was low, which exposed many sandbars. At 5:30 pm. I chose one
on the right bank. Here I set up camp. Opposite me, on the left bank, white trash bags marked a dump site. Not ideal, but it was only for
one night.
I had designed a rigging
for my kayak, turning it into a sailboat. The mast consisted of two
aluminum oar stems; the sail was a tarp. From the main halyard I
could hoist my mosquito net.
But I had not set up the mast yet, so I used the oar stems to construct a teepee structure on to which I could drape the net. It extended from the bow about two-thirds the length of the four meter long boat and was held firm at the foot by an inflatable thwart seat cushion. I could sleep in the kayak wonderfully if I deflated its outer chambers a smidgen to allow more room for my shoulders. The floor provided a comfortable air mattress. This arrangement made me glow with satisfaction.
But I had not set up the mast yet, so I used the oar stems to construct a teepee structure on to which I could drape the net. It extended from the bow about two-thirds the length of the four meter long boat and was held firm at the foot by an inflatable thwart seat cushion. I could sleep in the kayak wonderfully if I deflated its outer chambers a smidgen to allow more room for my shoulders. The floor provided a comfortable air mattress. This arrangement made me glow with satisfaction.
But flying cockroaches
disregarded my ingenuity. By the time I was ready to sneak beneath
the net, it was already filled with these brownish, one-inch long
bugs. How they managed that feat, I could not determine. They were a
nuisance, in particular for the first two days on the river, but less
so on the reservoir. At least they didn't bite.
As I lay in the kayak,
the moon, a day past full, rising in the east, shone brightly behind
me. Its northern section became slightly dimmed, as it slipped into a
penumbral eclipse. To the south I eyed dozens of orange lanterns, part of
Loy Kratong celebrations, way off in the distance as they floated
skyward. The wind sent them drifting. They appeared to outline the
slope of a mountain. A few firecrackers shattered the silence. I
watched the lanterns reach their maximum height, then descend
slightly and fade out, leaving no trace of their existence.
This first night on the
river was miserable, not so much because of the roaches, but the
rain. On and off, all night, showers interrupted my rest. I tried
covering myself and my sleeping bag with the sail, but it was too
small. If I was going to encounter nightly rain, I would have to find
a solution to this problem. As in life, finding solutions to problems
is a big part of adventure travel. Every day on the road tests your
preparedness and your wits. I wasn't prepared for the rain. How far
would my wits take me?
The best solution I could
think of to avoid the rain at night was to make a lean-to with the
boat and sleep beneath it. This worked, but the angle I had set the
boat did not leave me much room to turn over. I was, however, too
tired to remedy this problem. And roaches and mosquitoes alike had
free access to my quarters. Still, I got a few hours rest and the
next morning I set off anew. It was nine am. A late start. Yet, I had to
continually remind myself: this was not a race.
As I paddled away from
the sandbar, my curiosity induced me to check out the dump site on
the opposite bank. Was this the reason for the innumerable flying
roaches? Though the current was strong, the river was narrow, and I
was soon close enough to appease my imagination: the white plastic
wrappings were nothing other than sandbags buttressing the bank.
This incident revealed a blind spot. I felt I should have known what I was looking at. Cultivated fields abutted the bank of the river; not a very likely spot for a dump site.
It also illustrated a common phenomenon. At home, in familiar surroundings, we tend to stay in our comfort zones. We go to the same Starbucks, visit with the same Chris and Mary, buy the same bag of Doritos at Costco, worship at the altar of HBO and think how fulfilling our lives are. Rarely does a moment arise that presents something really new, something we are very unsure of or totally wrong about. In short, we usually know what we are dealing with.
It also illustrated a common phenomenon. At home, in familiar surroundings, we tend to stay in our comfort zones. We go to the same Starbucks, visit with the same Chris and Mary, buy the same bag of Doritos at Costco, worship at the altar of HBO and think how fulfilling our lives are. Rarely does a moment arise that presents something really new, something we are very unsure of or totally wrong about. In short, we usually know what we are dealing with.
On the road, however, a
far greater number of situations are unique; they entail something we
have never encountered in our lives. We are left to come to terms
with these situations based on similar experience and our wits.
Sometimes we see something and must decipher it in the anxious,
gut-wrenching moment, before the knife of indecision slices our neck.
Back in Chiang Mai, for
example, when Jesse offered the police officer money, was that a
bribe? When he told me he did not use the safety belt due to stomach
pain, was that the truth? I don't know. So very often that is the
answer: We just don't know. No necks got sliced here, but truth, like
the 500 baht bill in Jesse's wallet, often gets tucked away, before
we are sure of what we have seen.
Twelve hours ago I
thought I was camping across from a dump site. I was wrong.
Completely wrong. But now I knew. Maybe this is what is meant by
life-long learning.
Day 2 - 29 November (7 hours) Camped just before Doi Tao
After one and a half hours I arrived in Ban Luang Hot on the right bank. It was psychologically hard to stop for a break. Impetus kept me going. One more bend. Just one more, I often thought. And the trouble of docking, keeping money handy, risking dropping something overboard - it was better to just keep going. But, I forced myself to stop, with the excuse, I needed to fill a water bottle; I was not sure how far my supply would take me.
After one and a half hours I arrived in Ban Luang Hot on the right bank. It was psychologically hard to stop for a break. Impetus kept me going. One more bend. Just one more, I often thought. And the trouble of docking, keeping money handy, risking dropping something overboard - it was better to just keep going. But, I forced myself to stop, with the excuse, I needed to fill a water bottle; I was not sure how far my supply would take me.
On a quiet street a woman
was hanging up laundry. She summoned her sleeping husband to assist
me. He filled my bottle, then escorted me to a restaurant, where I
ordered khao phat, fried rice with vegetables. But I was not
convinced that this was a vegetarian meal. The cook assured me it
was; the questionable ingredient turned out to be gratiem,
garlic! How could garlic look like pork? I wondered. So it came to
pass that a mundane dish of stir fried vegetables revealed another of
my blind spots.
Before leaving the
restaurant, I asked the cook, How far is Doi Tao? By road or river?
River, I replied. Oh, krai! Thai is a tonal language. Krai
with a middle tone means „far.“ Said with a falling tone, the
same word means „nearby.“ But more than the tones, the context
and the cook's countenance conveyed the meaning: Keep paddling!
I kept paddling and
finally at five pm. I stopped for the night. I had been searching for a
suitable location since four o'clock, at which point the river began to
broaden out. On the left side was a large flood plain: no dry land
for a camp site. Only a few houseboats offered potential refuge.
I pulled up to one and at
the same time a fisherman approached. What do you want? he asked. Nii
baan khun mai? Is this your house? I asked. Yes. Oops! So sorry.
But where is an empty house? He told me up ahead I would find
accommodations. I paddled onward.
A couple hundred meters
distant was another house. I reckoned this must be the one the
fisherman was directing me to. I paddled with a renewed sense of
vigor. I was beat. But luck was against me. A man sat on his porch,
and he directed me further on.
Finally, I spotted a
house on the left bank. I was relieved. As I drew closer, I realized
my joy was again pre-mature. A husband and wife greeted me. And they
too pointed in the distance. About one hour, the woman said.
One hour – another
opportunity to decipher the situation. One hour in your long boat
with a high horsepower engine? Or one hour in my wide, inflatable,
oar-powered vessel? Or maybe her reply was culturally nuanced. Did
she tell me only „one hour“ so as not to disappoint me, when in
reality it was two or three? I paddled on.
Where should I stop? It
would soon be dark. To the left was marsh land, to the right a high
river bank. I had to make a decision before long. I could moor to the
bank, but I preferred spending the night on land, because I would have
more space and I could stretch my legs.
And, because of a small
whole through which water entered the cockpit of the boat, I knew
that sleeping in the boat on the river risked soaking my sleeping bag. I had
neglected to patch the hole before setting off on this adventure.
I found my camping site
about 50 meters on from the last house. The land was about half a
foot higher than the river. Vine-like plants covered the ground. I
dragged my boat up, and fearful of rain, made a lean-to, like last
night. Loy Kratong celebrations continued into the night presided
over by the moon. It loomed large, as if its fullness was somehow
extending beyond a single night. This time I adjusted the mosquito
net as best I could. Not perfect, but....
Not perfect means
horrible. In the morning seemingly more mosquitoes were inside the
net than outside. Though I covered myself with repellent, I got bites
a plenty. I consoled myself with the thought that at least it did not
rain.
Day 3 - 30 November (4.5 hours) arrival in Doi Tao / Camped after The Cliffs
Many years ago I realized that the most beautiful time of day is the very early morning. Unfortunately, this conflicts with one of life's simplest and most sought-after pleasures: rolling over and going back to sleep.
Many years ago I realized that the most beautiful time of day is the very early morning. Unfortunately, this conflicts with one of life's simplest and most sought-after pleasures: rolling over and going back to sleep.
At eight am. the sun burned through the mist and before long the heat was uncomfortable. I cleared
camp and watched my neighbor motor off ahead of me.
I rounded the first bend
to see another house, but it wasn't a house at all. It was a water
pump in a shack. Farmers used it to irrigate their fields. On this
trip I would pass so many water pumps that I had time to read the
repair manual and knew where to send away for spare parts.
Now the river was really
broad, too broad with too little current to call it a river any
longer. It was easily a few kilometers wide. Contemplating this
vista, I found it difficult to determine which direction to head. To
starboard I saw a fisherman taking in his net, and headed towards
him.
I want to go to Doi Tao,
I said.
He waved his arm
indiscriminately. I copied him and he nodded his head. But I could
not decipher the meaning of these gestures. So I approached another couple in
their boat. Wearing a broad-rimmed hat, the woman at the stern
paddled the boat backward as her husband measured out the net. A
three meter long propeller shaft stretched out parallel to the
water's surface.
This is Doi Tao, she
said.
I searched the lake and
in the far distance to port I could see houseboats with their red
roofs. I did not think that I had already come so far. It took me
nearly another hour to reach the shore. It was now 10:40. The „one
hour“ to this village had taken two. I never would have found it in
the dark of night.
At one of the houseboats
some women were organizing their storage room. This houseboat had a
restaurant. I ordered a couple dishes of food and looked forward to a
break from paddling. Though I wore fingerless gloves, I was in danger
of developing blisters on my exposed skin from gripping the oar. It
is strange to think that such a small malady as a blister could
prevent me from paddling, and turn this adventure into a failure. I
didn't know yet what awaited me.
My plans at Doi Tao were
to eat, buy provisions, and take a shower. At the restaurant I
ordered two vegetarian meals, but when the waitress gave me the bill,
she had over-charged me. In other words, she gave me the farang,
or foreigner, price.
I asked her to show me the menu, and when she did, she pointed to different items matching the prices she had charged me. She did not know that I could read the Thai menu. But soon we agreed on a price, including permission to take a shower, and I went looking for Doi Tao proper.
I asked her to show me the menu, and when she did, she pointed to different items matching the prices she had charged me. She did not know that I could read the Thai menu. But soon we agreed on a price, including permission to take a shower, and I went looking for Doi Tao proper.
I hitched a ride into
town, about six kilometers distant. At the 7-11 I bought a sewing
kit. Across the street a vendor sold fruit.
How much for a kilo tangerines? 25 baht, she replied.
How much for a kilo tangerines? 25 baht, she replied.
Give me half a kilo. And
a pineapple, for 30 baht. How much total?
Fifty-three baht, the
vendor said. Half a kilo tangerines costs 23 baht, the vendor told
me.
Forget it, I said. The
pineapple would suffice.
Back near the houseboats
a restaurant up on a hill was serving lunch. There I ordered two
meals-to- go for 60 baht total. When I paid, the owner short-changed
me ten baht.
Was this simply an honest
mistake? Or, was the owner merely trying to maximize revenue? Another
opportunity for me to search for meaning in the situation.
After showering, I rowed
from the houseboat over to the shore, pulled the boat up on land, and
set up the mast.
All the fishermen ask the
same question: Pai nai? Where to? At first I would reach far
with my response: To Tak, I would reply. Maybe this was being overly
ambitious, I thought, so I shortened it to the next town, Doi Tao.
But when a man approached me as I set up the mast, I replied, To the
dam.
Can you do it? In that?
His mien conveyed his doubts.
An hour later I departed.
It was nearly three pm. A good wind was picking up. I rounded the first
bend, headed south, and hoisted the sail. The starboard wind hit the
sail hard, too hard. A storm was coming fast. I scrambled to lower
it. By the time I had finished, the wind had pushed me into the
vegetation along the shore.
I was alarmed when I
realized I was in a thicket of thorny plants. The inflatable boat plowed
through the stiff stems. Surely the boat would be punctured in several
places. I cursed myself for having hoisted the sail in stormy
weather. To prevent the wind from blowing me further, I scrambled to
grab hold of a stem. There I remained 20 minutes.
Looking down at the water
I saw air bubbles rising, clearly a sign of a puncture. I did not
bring the repair kit with me, so duct tape would have to suffice. The
stream of bubbles continued while I searched with my hand for the
hole.
Then the boat drifted
sideways. But the bubbles stayed in the same place. As it turned out,
the boat was not damaged after all. The PVC material, nearly one
millimeter thick, had held.
The rain passed to the
north, without a single drop landing on me, and with the wind
calming, I paddled onward.
Though I was a bit
gun shy, I hoisted the main not long afterwards. But during the next
hour and a half the sail did little to propel me closer to the dam,
still several days distant. At 5:15 I headed to the western shore,
where The Cliffs shone golden.
This was one of the few stretches where the banks consist of stone, not vegetation. Rocky cliffs are much more interesting to the eye than forested hillsides. The orange, yellow, and reddish hues glow vividly; the shapes, lines, and edges are more alluring, more haunting than a palette of greens.
A beautiful stretch of sandbanks was located just past The Cliffs. A few houseboats floated on bamboo lattices nearby. Though ball lightning flashed to the east, I decided the rain would spare me this night. So, instead of constructing a lean-to, I prepared the cockpit for the night.
This was one of the few stretches where the banks consist of stone, not vegetation. Rocky cliffs are much more interesting to the eye than forested hillsides. The orange, yellow, and reddish hues glow vividly; the shapes, lines, and edges are more alluring, more haunting than a palette of greens.
A beautiful stretch of sandbanks was located just past The Cliffs. A few houseboats floated on bamboo lattices nearby. Though ball lightning flashed to the east, I decided the rain would spare me this night. So, instead of constructing a lean-to, I prepared the cockpit for the night.
I hoisted the mosquito
net on the main halyard. Cow bells and bleating goats provided the
soundtrack to images of a sandy beach and colorful sunset. The late
afternoon and evening hours ushered in the second most magical time
of day. It felt good to lie in the boat, beneath the net, gazing at
the heavens, wishing such moments would not fade.
The Milky Way was clearly visible. But this patch of sky was unfamiliar to me. Besides the constellation of Orion, I knew no others.
The Milky Way was clearly visible. But this patch of sky was unfamiliar to me. Besides the constellation of Orion, I knew no others.
While the sun painted the
western sky, in the east a very bright celestial body ascended, trailing the moon. This was Jupiter. I preferred to watch this show in the
east, since the sunset was practically finished. But the position of
the boat and the sandbar gave me a ticket to the western theatrics.
Content with this show, I watched until the curtain of night had
fallen.
Day 4 - 1 December (8.5 hours) / Homestay in Houseboat
This morning I literally trimmed the sail. It was too big for my craft and interfered with paddling. So I cut a few inches off the roach. I also taped four battens, made from bamboo I had found in Chiang Mai, onto the roach of the sail for support.
This morning I literally trimmed the sail. It was too big for my craft and interfered with paddling. So I cut a few inches off the roach. I also taped four battens, made from bamboo I had found in Chiang Mai, onto the roach of the sail for support.
The mast was supported by
conventional rigging: a forestay, one shroud each on port and
starboard, and two backstays, which were angled far enough back so as
to allow an unimpeded stroke. The aluminum oars constructing the mast
were held together by a one-inch diameter pvc pipe, into which they
fit perfectly.
Still, the kayak had no
skegs, and of course no keel. So I could sail forward only with a
tailwind. I was hoping I would have a quality opportunity to test the
sail on this trip.
Last night was fabulous!
No rain. No bugs. And, it seemed as if the moon was prolonging its
fullness night after night. In Haruki Murakami's novel, 1Q84,
the heroine, Aomame, finds herself in a mystical world where she sees
two moons. My world was not quite so mystical, but in addition to my
blind spots, it revealed its own magic.
It was a world of minimal
elements: water, mountains, sky. This reservoir created a world
apart: No traffic, no television or communication signal, no
advertising, no products to buy. It was a world that provided an
Aussteiger lifestyle to those few people who chose this as
their home. And now, for a limited time, I was one of them, creating
my own new comfort zone with the few items I possessed.
As I left camp, a
forceful wind picked up, but it was a headwind. If it is impossible
to sail into the wind, it is quite difficult to paddle against this
nemesis. It took me two hours to reach the entrance to the next
narrow stretch. On the map this distance is almost nothing. But in a
slow kayak against a headwind, the repetitive motion of paddling eats
into your muscles and psyche.
I eyed each spit of land as a short-term goal. Before me was a spit about
twenty minutes away. On the western hillside overlooking this
entrance was a wooden building, with the national flag flying
outside. Was this the HQ of a national park? The Ping River National
Park borders the reservoir to the east, but few visitors would have
access to that building. I didn't stop to visit. Instead, I reached
the spit, passed it, and eyed the next one.
Moored to a cliff for lunch |
Karaoke shattered the
serenity. Few took notice of this Aussteiger in the red kayak.
I chowed down on the second of the two meals-to-go I had bought
yesterday. I had left it on the sandbar over night and the ants had
gotten to it. But this morning I had returned the favor: I had gotten to them.
A cramp developed in my
right trapezius. While paddling I stretched my neck to the left,
relieving the pain. At least it did not not hurt constantly. Whatever you do, if you do it for hours on end, you have to find a way to make yourself at
home, create your new comfort zone. Paddling was no different.
I had to be particularly
careful with my hands. Due to gripping the oar so long, after a few
days my fingers began to swell up. In the evenings I had difficulty
making a fist. To remedy this problem I altered my grip on the oar,
at times using only one finger and my thumb at a time to control it.
After lunch a fisherman
approached in his boat from astern. When he reached me, he lowered
his rpms and cried out, Where you going? He was one of the few
boatmen who greeted me first.
I replied, To the dam! Then he made a gesture of sleeping. At the time I did not understand
him, but later I imagined that he wanted to ask where I slept. Why
didn't he simply ask me? He possibly assumed I would not have
understood his language. And he probably would have been right.
Paddling solo I had lots
of time to think. With the US elections recently held, I wondered
what could possibly convince people to vote Republican. If the
compelling reason was not racism, what was it? Lindsay Graham, the
conservative senator from South Carolina, said it best: the
Republican party is not sustainable. Not enough angry white men. The
conservative New York Times columnist David Brooks put it
differently: Everybody but the GOP has entered the 21st
century.
White men were angry
because they were losing their grip on power. The browning visage of
America cut to the heart of their identity. An angry
white man might think, If I am not top dog, who am I?
And who was I, a middle
aged white man, paddling on this seemingly endlessly long reservoir?
Did I have something to prove? Was this show a mid-life crisis,
physical theatrics to fend off the specter of death?
The easy answer was, It
was more exciting than another day in Mae Sot. But, yes, I did want to test my physical ability, and confront my fears.
If it is hard to stomach failure, living without having tried burns deeper.
But to pass the time I
also sang a few songs. Up Around the Bend, by Credence
Clearwater Revival was my favorite. I didn't know all the lyrics. So
I repeated the first verse, hummed a second, and paddled on.
At four pm. I glided by a
houseboat to starboard. Each time I passed one, I wondered if I
should stop and chat. This time a young woman was hanging out her
laundry. Then she went into an open room to rock her baby in a hammock. We
greeted each other with smiles and I continued past the house. In an
adjacent room I saw a half dozen large fish basket traps. Had I only
thought to buy a camera in Chiang Mai, I thought, this would make an
excellent photo.
Soon afterwards I met a
couple in their longboat paying out their net. I asked them, How many
days to the dam? Five, the man replied. And how many hours to the
next village, Ban Ko? The woman repeated my question to her husband.
He said, One. It was just past four pm. Luck was with me. I could make
it to the village before dark.
Onward I pressed. Then a
slight tailwind on starboard hit me. Hoist the main! the captain
cried. I fumbled around at the mast step, tying down the tack,
shifting the water bottles to clear the halyard. Soon the sail was up
– and soon it was down. The wind died with barely a whisper. And I
dipped my oar in the water once again.
Looking at my watch, I
saw it was now past 5 pm. I was beat. But I kept on. I was quickly
losing hope of arriving in Ban Ko before dark.
Up ahead was a house. If
no one is there, I will make myself at home, I thought. In any case I
will talk with the residents. Maybe I can moor to their floorboards.
A fishing boat sped towards me. When they were within talking range, the man said something to me. I replied, OK, but I had no clue as to what he said.
A fishing boat sped towards me. When they were within talking range, the man said something to me. I replied, OK, but I had no clue as to what he said.
And as he sped off, I
realized I had been slow on the uptake. This was the same couple I
had just met. How did they get ahead of me? Was I daydreaming when
they passed me by? I wondered.
The house I had set my
sights on was across an open stretch of water. Psychologically, open
stretches are the worst. With shores distant, it is difficult to
discern forward progress. I looked at the wake of the bow for
confirmation. Indeed, I was going forward, but slowly. To the right
was an inlet where two houses were moored to towering, branchless
tree trunks jutting from the brownish-green water.
Finally, I reached the
house. One room had fish basket traps stacked high, just like the
other house I had passed not long ago. And here, too, a woman was
busy with household chores. Then she walked to one room to rock her child in a hammock. As Yogi Berra might have said, it was deja vu all over again.
I hadn't been going
forward at all. Mistakenly I had doubled back! When hoisting the
main, the boat turned 180 degrees and I had not noticed. At that point the cliffs
were high, and the river narrow, so I could not see much sky. And it
was late in the day, so the sun was not visible behind the cliffs.
Excuses, excuses! Plain
and simple, I had gotten disoriented.
Woman rocks her child in hammock |
Darkness was soon upon
me, so I hurried to prepare for sleep. I laid out my sleeping bag and
strung up my net. This house, like others on the reservoir, was
constructed of teak planks and bamboo and was little more than a
shack. The floor plan included one miniature room, an adjacent covered
area, and another unsheltered deck. Behind the roofed area, trash was
piling up. The outhouse was around the side. Fishing nets hung from
the rafters. A bucket sat on the bamboo deck.
But no sooner had I
finished hanging the mosquito net than I realized this house had a
roach problem. These were the big, black ones, already scurrying on
my sleeping bag. And there was no way of keeping them out, since they
could crawl in from between the floorboards.
I did not want to sleep
on this houseboat. The only other option was the kayak, so I prepared
it for the night.
Neighbor looks for snakes |
I poured out some muesli
for him. He remained squatted, with the muesli in his cupped hand,
while I thought of things to say to him. Where are you from? Tak. And
where do you sell your fish? Doi Tao. What about drinking water?
Silly question. He looked around at all the water. Drinking water,
obviously. He then looked at the muesli in his hand. After a long
silence he said, I can't eat this. He put it back on my plate. Few
Thais have eaten muesli.
When he shone the light
beneath the house again, I had to ask him. What are you looking for?
His reply was short: snakes. Oh, really! Poisonous ones? I asked. It
depends what kind they are, he replied. He excused himself and in the
stillness of the night returned home.
Afterwards, as I drifted
off to sleep, I thought, How should I interpret his snake hunting?
Was he being protective of me? Or, was he trying to instill in me the
heebie-jeebies? I figured it was the former, but I would never be
sure.
During the night, no
snakes visited me. I slept in the kayak, waking every few hours,
checking the water level along the side of the floor. It was leaking
to starboard, where the hole was. I sponged it out a few times in the night. At least I stayed
dry.
Day 5 - 2 December (5.5 hours) Ban Ko / Camped at Cow Corral
It took me two and a half hours to reach Ban Ko. It was 9:30 am. as I docked at the first houseboat. Workers were repairing the roof. They stopped to watch my arrival. An old lady greeted me as I docked.
It took me two and a half hours to reach Ban Ko. It was 9:30 am. as I docked at the first houseboat. Workers were repairing the roof. They stopped to watch my arrival. An old lady greeted me as I docked.
Pai nai?
To the dam!
She indicated the passage
to the west, towards the next stretch of shoestring. Then, without my
inquiring, she told me that restaurants were located around the bend
to the east. So I paddled that direction and stopped at the first
one. I placed my order of phak phat luam, fried mixed
vegetables, and sat down to write.
A houseboat docked next
to this one to let its anglers disembark. I wondered if this
restaurant would try to cheat me as in Doi Tao. It is a never-ending
story. Pay the farang price. Already the owner had informed me
I wouldn't be getting plain water with my meal, a courtesy in almost
all other restaurants in this country.
The sun burned off the
haze. My body ached a bit, but not nearly like I had imagined after
eight and a half hours of paddling yesterday. Frankly, I didn't
understand how I could paddle for so long. Four more days and I would
be at the dam.
I finished my breakfast, paid the bill, and paddled back westward around the bend and dragged my boat on
shore. I walked up the small hill to what looked like a park office,
offering information on houseboat rides.
Two men were repairing a
weed-whacker. I chatted with them and one offered to take me on his
motorcycle into town, eight kilometers away. This offer turned out to
be genuine, no farang price; in fact, no price at all. And
soon we were skirting potholes as we wound our way towards Ban Ko
proper. I was in search of fruit.
It was a bountiful trip.
The first store we stopped at had apples and pomelo. The next had
more apples, pineapples, and pears. I bought plenty, but wondered how
long the fruit would last in the heat. We returned to the dock where
my driver dropped me off and I ambled to another houseboat for lunch
and a mid-day rest.
I ordered five lunches –
one for now and four to go. My appetite was growing for something other than what I had in stock. The owner let me use his phone to call a
friend. My phone, with the service provider TRUE, did not work here.
I was anxious to depart, but decided to rest a bit to avoid the
mid-day sun and read The Word, by Irving Wallace.
A group of local
policemen came to eat lunch. One took an interest in me as I prepared
to leave. He checked out my boat and said, No engine! I rolled up my
sleeve and showed him my delts.
Then I reached for my soap in a pocket of my backpack and took the dish from the plastic bag. Suddenly, the policeman said, Oh, what happened? I looked at my finger and saw it was bathed in crimson. I had cut myself on my razor in the bag with the soap. But once would not be enough.
Then I reached for my soap in a pocket of my backpack and took the dish from the plastic bag. Suddenly, the policeman said, Oh, what happened? I looked at my finger and saw it was bathed in crimson. I had cut myself on my razor in the bag with the soap. But once would not be enough.
The cut, small but deep,
delayed my departure 20 minutes. It finally stopped bleeding
and I dressed the wound. A band-aid alone does not work in a wet
environment. Duct tape is indispensable.
I would not have cut
myself had the policeman not been there, I thought. I would have
reached for the soap in a different manner. I would not have been
distracted.
But can we really parse
events of our lives so finely? If I had reached for the soap in a
different manner, maybe I would have cut myself more severely. We
never know what would have happened along the road not traveled.
At 2:30 pm. I said
good-bye to the policemen. They had invited me to eat with them, but
I had already finished my lunch. The generosity of many outweighs the
connivings of some.
From Ban Ko the
shoestring of water runs roughly east-west. It took two hours to
complete this stretch and enter the narrows running south. I sprinted
part of this distance after starting out slow.
As I rounded the bend I
hoisted the main, but the wind died a moment later. When will I get
to sail? I wondered. Next time I will journey south to north, from
Bhumidol dam to Doi Tao. This will assure me of a tailwind. And, I
will have my back to the sun.
It was time to search for
a camp site. Just past the bend heading south the reservoir opens up
wider. To starboard I could see a few houses, and that, I assumed
meant the possibility of finding suitable land for the night.
But then I saw a closer
possibility. Abeam cows were corralled. I headed there, thinking, Is
this the best option? Cows stink and attract lots of flies. But once
on shore, all was fine. In fact, it turned out to be one of the best
camping spots I found. No stench. And the flies were a seldom breed.
They seemed to be ground flies, walking on the sand. How odd!
This time, from within my
mosquito net, I had a beautiful view of the rising moon accompanied
by the gas giant Jupiter. Ball lightning flashed to the east, but
above me were stars galore. I had eaten one of my packed meals for
dinner and now, with the day behind me, could relax completely.
Day 6 – 3 December (7
hours) to Kaeng Soi temple
Another day, another story. This is one payoff of being on the road. It opens up the doors for stories that give you the impression you are living a novel. Maybe not one penned by Murakami, but written by a non-human, supernatural force.
Another day, another story. This is one payoff of being on the road. It opens up the doors for stories that give you the impression you are living a novel. Maybe not one penned by Murakami, but written by a non-human, supernatural force.
I headed down the
narrows. Along the way I passed a mountain on the right that looked
like a stetson. At that juncture, where the river veers to port, a
strong counter-current slowed me down on the inside lane. I paddled
furiously, but could not make much headway. So I gave up and headed
to the outside of the curve. There I had a slight tailwind; that
would surely soon fade. But now I had the current.
Just before ten am. I
found a spot in the shade of a cliff to port. I ate breakfast there
for 45 minutes. One fisherman passed me. He was piloting his boat, right hand on the throttle, while lying down, kicking back, relaxing. When he spotted me, he rose
abruptly and gave me thumbs up. A kindred spirit, I thought. An
Aussteiger among Aussteiger.
A couple days ago I
noticed a pain beneath the toes on my left foot. Beneath the little one the skin was split. Also, red blotches appeared beneath the other
toes. This seemed not to be the athlete's foot I knew from my locker
room days. Nevertheless, I applied anti-fungal cream to it. Then yesterday,
departing from Ban Ko, I noticed that it was worse. The cream had not
helped. But I did not worry much about it. After all, how serious
could it be?
At 1:20 pm. I rounded a
bend. In the distance to starboard was a temple perched at the base
of a hill. It took a good while before I thought, Maybe I should rest
there. Several buildings comprising the complex dotted the landscape.
Many had spires and looked as if occasioned by a fairy tale. An island
was crowned with a golden stupa. From my boat I could see a reclining
Buddha statue. The scene was almost Disneyesque.
On the water beyond the
temple I could just recognize a houseboat headed my way. Who would
arrive at the temple first? I wondered. I was much, much closer. I
made a bet with myself, that at my current pace I would arrive much
sooner.
Approaching Kaeng Soi temple |
I walked on, looking for
a place to sit and rest. I could hear cowbells pealing from the
hillside. The path led north to the reclining Buddha I had seen from
the boat. But just before that statue was a wooden structure. I
stopped there to rest.
It was a sculpture
workshop. In front of it was a cement pedestal, about three feet
high, on top of which was a pair of crossed legs. On the ground was a
torso in two pieces. The arms lay behind the pedestal. And as I sat
on the porch, cutting my pineapple, the hollow head of this Buddha,
sliced off at the forehead, faced me, eyes serenely shut. I could peer into this Buddha's head and spy the result of devoted meditation: nothingness.
While it was good to rest
and savor the sweetness of the pineapple, I fretted about my feet. Just now they began
to hurt. It would take two more days to reach the dam. Probably the
hotel there would have medication. But could I wait so long?
Oddly, it took a long
time for the thought to occur to me: Maybe this temple has
medication. Why don't I ask here? This new situation revealed to me a
glaring blind spot. It was inexplicable to me that I had had to convince
myself to take a break here; that I did not realize earlier I had a
problem with my feet; that I considered asking for help at the dam
before I thought to seek aid at the temple.
I walked back to the main
structure and filled my water bottle again. A man in civvies came
towards me. I asked him if he had any medication. For what? he asked.
I showed him my feet. Ah, naam kat thao, literally „water
bites feet.“ OK, he said, and wandered off. I seated myself on some
steps and waited.
Then a monk, the only one
I had thus far seen, approached me. He was in his early 20s, garbed
in orange. I explained to him my problem. He proceeded to ask me a
few questions: Where are you from? Is this your first time here?
Where do you live?
He disappeared for a
moment and returned with a plastic medical case. He reached inside
and handed me a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Then he gave me one of
iodine tincture. Left inside the box were only a few bandages.
Unfortunately, there was nothing I could use.
I sat on the steps, eyeing
the bottle of alcohol, wondering what my next move would be. It is
amazing to think that an adventurer can be waylaid by the simplest of
ailments. Imagine John Glenn radioing ground control. Eagle to
Houston. I cannot land. I repeat, I cannot land. Water is biting my
feet!
A moment later, the civvy
clad man presented me with a small white box. I turned it over in my
hand, looking for English writing. On the back side in red printing I
read the words: Anti-fungal. Anti-inflammatory. I opened the box,
and removed the tube.
Wow! This was exactly
what I needed: 15 grams of cure. Liberally I bathed my feet in the
soothing white cream. I turned to the monk who was still watching me,
overlooking this hapless adventurer. I asked him if I could spend one
night. Yes, he replied and pointed to a tiled pavilion where I could
sleep. Bathrooms were down the hill, to the right.
I sat on the steps,
relieved that I had found assistance. This was truly a stroke of luck.
This temple is not marked on my map. It just appeared, like a vision,
in the mid-day heat. I held the tube in my hand and looked at it
again. Anti-fungal. Anti-inflammatory. Had I gone to a hospital I
could not have gotten better treatment. But of course, no one goes to
the hospital for athlete's foot.
Then I turned the tube
over in my hand and saw for the first time the big, red lettering I
had thus far overlooked: I read it: TIMI. I could hardly believe my
eyes. This medication had my name on it! Was the universe – or the
Buddha himself – talking to me?
Again, I was left to
interpret this situation. I am an atheist. I do not believe in Zeus
or Hephaestus, about whom my 7th grade report earned me a
D, or any other gods or goddesses. The evidence for such is dearly
lacking, not to say non-existent.
But sometimes events
occur in our lives that make us wonder, Is this merely a coincidence?
The strangeness of events may lead us to conclude that a cosmic order
is in control, that an omnipotent hand is playing chess and we are the
pawns; that an all-seeing Murakami is narrating our lives.
Day 7 – 4 December (0
hours) rest at Kaeng Soi temple
Another commercial houseboat docked an hour ago. The men passengers, donning live vests, jumped from the railing into the water. One did a flip, another a cannonball. Others swam to the nearby island, home to a shrine. My boat was adjacent to theirs, but the passengers took scant notice as I watched from the temple entrance on high.
Another commercial houseboat docked an hour ago. The men passengers, donning live vests, jumped from the railing into the water. One did a flip, another a cannonball. Others swam to the nearby island, home to a shrine. My boat was adjacent to theirs, but the passengers took scant notice as I watched from the temple entrance on high.
This morning when I saw
the monk I walked towards him. I asked him if I could spend another
night at the temple. Yes, he said. He responded with the serenity of
the Buddha himself. At his young age he seemed to possess more
self-confidence than me. This temple was truly remarkable,
geographically speaking, with its remoteness and small nearby
islands. But its otherworldliness was minted when a disciple of Buddha handed me
sustenance with my name on it. Whether it would comfort or confuse, this story was surely one to ponder
for a lifetime.
Last night as I read The
Word in the pavilion, the young monk came to talk with me. My
Thai ability is still in the beginner stages. Though I can
communicate many things, I have a devilish time with aural
comprehension. He asked me, what is your book about? Christianity, I
replied. But he wanted to know more, so I launched into the details.
A man, 38, is rich, works in advertising, but does not like his
job....But then the monk cut me off. OK, tell me what you think about
Thai culture, he implored.
I told him about my problem. I ask too many questions, in particular, Why? In so doing I make other people
feel uncomfortable, since often they cannot answer my questions.
This makes them feel bad and they lose face. The concept of face is very
important in Thailand.
Another monk in civvies
joined us in the pavilion. He had been living here 20 years. He told
me that last year three Westerners arrived by boat like me and spent
the night. That was all I could get out of him, without either one of
us losing face. He soon left the pavilion and I continued reading.
This afternoon I put my
sewing skills to the test. In a piece of cloth I had bought in Chiang
Mai, I stitched hems into which I would slide bamboo sticks. This
would be my sun awning, which I would rig on the shrouds and backstays.
I spent the afternoon
reading The Word. I lay on the floor in the
pavilion, relaxing, enjoying the time off. The coolness of the ceramic tiles counteracted the mid-day torridity. The monk was busy
sweeping leaves, when he stopped and came to tell me something. I did not
understand, so he repeated himself. The third time I grasped what he
was saying: Don't lie with your feet pointing towards the Buddha
statue. Idiot me, I had made this mistake before, and I would make it
again tomorrow. Another blind spot.
A strong southerly wind
rushed through the narrows of the reservoir. It whipped the branches of the trees gracing the temple grounds. Tomorrow morning I would
be heading south. If this keeps up, I thought, I will be in trouble.
I won't be able to paddle through it.
I took a shower. In one
stall were the monk's toiletries placed neatly in a plastic bowl in
the corner. Since my soap was down on the boat, I decided to avail
myself of his. Ouch! In reaching for the bar I cut myself on his
razor.
There is an old saying:
experience is that which teaches us we have made a mistake for the
second time. This kayaking trip was offering much of this brand of involvement, and I tallied another blind spot.
The monk spelled his name
for me: B-E-S-T. Mr. Best, he said. He had been at this temple for
one year. In the darkness of the engulfing night, we stood together near the entrance and watched the
houseboat pull away from the shore. One woman passenger told me it
took seven hours from the dam to here. And another eight hours to Doi
Tao. She told me she would meet me at the dam in two days when the
tugboat would pull them home.
Mr. Best asked me why I
didn't travel by houseboat. I told him I didn't like the music, the
loud noise, the party atmosphere. He replied, all you have to do is
maintain tranquility within, and he slipped into a standing
meditation position. It is all about how you perceive the world. Some
call it a question of mind over matter: if you don't mind, it doesn't
matter. Mr. Best smiled at me as the houseboat faded into the night.
Day 8 – 5 December (9.5
hours) From Kaeng Soi temple to Bo Lom temple
Did I overdo it today? Nine and a half hours! I didn't understand how I could paddle so long. Mr. Best thought it would take me two and a half days to arrive at the dam. But I will make it easily tomorrow, I thought.
Did I overdo it today? Nine and a half hours! I didn't understand how I could paddle so long. Mr. Best thought it would take me two and a half days to arrive at the dam. But I will make it easily tomorrow, I thought.
The monk at this temple, Bo Lom, is in his mid 40s. He had spent many years working for a
construction company in Middle East and spoke English with an Indian
lilt. I imagined he had worked with laborers from the subcontinent. My home is your home, he said to me. Only the head wobble was
missing.
As I ate dinner he rang
the gong, just a couple meters away. The metallic peal pierced my being. But since he made
me the fried eggs, I could endure it, I told myself, as I cut away
the yolk.
This temple is located at
the eastern entrance to the east-west passage leading to the southern
reservoir. As I approached, from a couple kilometers away I could see
something sparkling in the sunshine. Curiously, it looked like a
road sign with an arrow pointing to the right. And, somehow I almost believed
this. Again, I did not know what I was looking at. When I got closer
I could confirm that it was not a road sign directing boat traffic. It
was a golden decoration hanging from a statue of a giant seated
Buddha.
I arrived here at five pm. A boat I had seen docked here had brought a Thai family from Tak to
visit the temple. They chatted with me and took photos. Welcome to
Thailand! one woman wished me. The monk saw them off and then invited
me to join him at the temple. I sheltered my boat in a slot in a bundle of bamboo to shield it from the wind, gathered my bags for
the night, and climbed the hillside stairs.
Back at Kaeng Soi temple,
Mr. Best had taken a pen and placed a dot at our location on my map.
It was just a couple kilometers north of the T-junction that had
worried me before I set out on this journey.
If you turn left at that
junction, you head towards the dam. But if you mistakenly turn right,
you head up a tributary to the northwest. It would take at least
three days to the next town, Ban Mae Tuen Noi. This error in judgment
would not have been life threatening, since I had enough food with me
to last several days. But it would have revealed another gaping blind
spot.
The T-junction was
unmistakable. This morning at eight am. as I eased eastward around the bend,
I wondered how I could have thought that it was dangerous. I had
gotten a very early start, wanting to make it to the dam in two days.
In the darkness of the morn I penned Mr. Best a note, thanking him
for his hospitality. He had given me so much. He had told me he had
been practicing metta, the Buddhist concept of loving
kindness.
The stretch of shoestring
I put behind me on this day is an arch bending northward, running
west-east. It is narrow, with some cliffs along the southern edge.
True to form, the early morn was the most beautiful time of day. I
looked up the narrows and where the walls of the northern and
southern cliffs converged I saw the sun filtering through the mist
still rising from the water. The coolness of dawn was refreshing. And
then, a tailwind!
Sailing eastward after the T-junction |
But then the narrows
broadened out, turned a bit southward, and the wind died.
The wide openness of the water again battered me psychologically. No
spits of land to serve as carrots.
Usually, as soon as you round one spit, another one grabs your focus and off you go. You can play the game with yourself, Guess how many minutes until you reach that next spit! And your answer will usually be 15 or 20 minutes. But in the wider, open water, it is just one long hot stretch of paddling. And reaching the other end can take hours. Traversing these stretches takes mental discipline.
Usually, as soon as you round one spit, another one grabs your focus and off you go. You can play the game with yourself, Guess how many minutes until you reach that next spit! And your answer will usually be 15 or 20 minutes. But in the wider, open water, it is just one long hot stretch of paddling. And reaching the other end can take hours. Traversing these stretches takes mental discipline.
On this open body of
water I sprinted for short intervals. I felt like Jerry Lewis in scene from an
old-time film. Lewis enters a huge hall and must traverse the long
distance diagonally to exit. He starts off slowly, but then with each
ensuing step, he becomes more and more anxious, afraid of the
impending size of the cavernous hall and his inner demons. So he
begins to walk ever more quickly, his steps becoming strides, and
soon he is sprinting, high-kneed in his short-legged black trousers
and white socks!
Because I wanted
desperately to put this stretch of water behind me, I didn't stop for
lunch until I had done so. Though hungry, I paddled on. Twenty minutes into the stretch I looked
behind me to see how far I had come. It appeared as if I had gone
nowhere!
Off in the distance ahead of me I saw a commercial houseboat approaching. It was very small. Though I had hoisted my awning, the sun burned from a low angle to starboard and helped little. I laid wet rags across my bare legs to prevent sunburn, and I stayed in the shade of the southern bank as long as I could, before abandoning it to cut to the exit.
Off in the distance ahead of me I saw a commercial houseboat approaching. It was very small. Though I had hoisted my awning, the sun burned from a low angle to starboard and helped little. I laid wet rags across my bare legs to prevent sunburn, and I stayed in the shade of the southern bank as long as I could, before abandoning it to cut to the exit.
Sing songs. Exorcise demons. Ponder blind spots. I got time. It took me another hour to
finish this section as the houseboat passed me silently to port.
Of course, I also had time enough to count paddle strokes. My calculations were not scientific, but I tallied about 45 strokes per minute. At that rate, an eight hour day yields over 20,000 strokes.
Of course, I also had time enough to count paddle strokes. My calculations were not scientific, but I tallied about 45 strokes per minute. At that rate, an eight hour day yields over 20,000 strokes.
I found some rocks to tie
myself to on the right bank, and chowed down on tuna, muesli and
peanuts. My foot fungus, I reckoned, was a result of the fact that my
feet were constantly wet. The clever idea I had this morning of wrapping my feet in
plastic bags was, like the bags themselves, riddled with holes. I
abandoned the bags shortly after departing from the temple. And now,
with lunch finished, I slathered on more of the cream that the Buddha
had ordained.
I occupied my mind by
comparing my speed with that of the houseboats. That is why I made
that bet with myself heading to temple Kaeng Soi, as to who would
reach the goal first. Now, armed with the information as to how long
the houseboats needed to travel from the dam to the temple, I
calculated: if it took me six hours to arrive at the dam tomorrow,
that would mean the houseboats travel about twice as fast as me. They
go slow. I go very slow.
At Bo Lom temple I laid
inside the umbrella-like mosquito net the monk has provided me. The
foot of my sleeping bag pointed toward icons. Bad, bad, bad! The monk
did not hesitate to point out my blind spot.
Later, at nine pm., I
crawled from beneath the net to join him down at the dock. He had told me he liked to star-gaze. I asked him if he knew the names of
the stars. That one, he said, pointing with his flashlight to
Jupiter, is Pluto. This monk, too, had his blind spots.
He shone his light on the
fish near the dock. He seemed to be an entrepreneur. He had plans to
build a fishery, as a food source. Whereas Mr. Best was a vegetarian,
this monk was an omnivore. Topside he wanted to build a stupa, at at
cost of a million baht, or $30,000.
Day 9 – 6 December (6 hours) Temple Bo Lom to Bhumidol Dam / Camped at Sam Ngao
To the west of the temple
grounds was a cave. After turning on the generator, the monk escorted
me to the entrance where we found a statue of a man meditating.
Two or three thousand
years ago the guru meditated in this cave, he said. Inside the
initial cavern were hundreds of bats hanging from the ceiling.
Strategically placed floodlights illuminated stalagmites and
stalactites. It looked impressive. We walked further into the cave.
On the left was a large boulder.
Here is where the guru
sat, he said, as he shone his light on the rock.
Yeah, right. Two or three
thousand years ago. I may have blind spots, but this monk's story was
too far-fetched. The cave is relatively large. The monk said that
oxygen was low inside, and indeed, I was out of breath. When we
exited, the monk told me of his plans.
I want to build stupa topside, very big. Tourists see, coming, visit cave, taking photo
and....“ His voice faded out. I inferred that he thought that
they would make donations and he would profit from them. He wants to
install new lights in the cave, and solar panels to power the temple.
After a breakfast of
muesli and tea, I packed up my gear. The monk tossed into my bag a
couple boxes of cookies. One was called Overload, a chocolate cracker
with chocolate filling. I had eaten one last night. I am almost a
fanatic about my diet. But these cookies broke me. To paraphrase
Oscar Wilde, when it is within arms reach, I can resist anything but
temptation.
Down at the dock I tried
to extricate the boat from the slip. I squatted on the bamboo
and eased my boat backward. But it could not exit, because it
collided with plants blocking it.
Sit in it, the monk said.
I did as he suggested,
but could not paddle because the bamboo was surrounding the boat like
a glove. I wondered, Why do I listen to him? Why don't I decide for
myself what to do?
This is a recurring theme
for me, especially when I travel. With others telling me what to do,
I don't have the conviction to forge ahead with my own ideas. Also,
I think the locals may know better than I do, and I do not want to
insult them. But they don't always know better, as I would find out
tomorrow.
The monk pushed, extricating the boat from the dock and I was on my way. The passage to the big
lake-like reservoir is short. I headed to the southern bank of the
passage which offered some shade, and soon rounded the bend. Since I
would be heading south-southeast today, I would have little shade. I
set up my awning and paddled along the eastern shore.
Just south of the bend,
several sandy beaches were exposed, making good locations for a camp
site. This was unusual. The shore of the reservoir was nearly uniformly steep, impossible to tow the kayak up for the night.
But the temple was really welcoming. No need to camp when two fried eggs and a pack of Overload cookies are waiting for you Up around the bend. Fogerty didn't mention that in his lyrics.
But the temple was really welcoming. No need to camp when two fried eggs and a pack of Overload cookies are waiting for you Up around the bend. Fogerty didn't mention that in his lyrics.
Heading in this direction
it was impossible to avoid the sun. Moreover, it is a long haul with
little diversion. But one incident puzzled me.
A couple hours south of
the bend I saw a fisherman in his longboat. He was about 100 meters
distant, heading eastward. But suddenly he changed course, and
beelined toward me. This was odd. What did he want? Was he intrigued
by my rigging? He stopped about 10 meters from my boat and let the
engine idle. On the bow perched a large colorful rooster.
Pai baan. This is
the simplest of phrases in Thai but somehow I did not understand it. More
so than western languages, Thai is context based. Literally, this
means „go home,“ with an implied subject. The fisherman was
returning home.
Pai baan, he
repeated.
Mai kaojai, I told
him. I didn't understand and paddled onward.
He sped off towards the
east. I watched him grow smaller with time, and then it hit me: He
was inviting me to his house. The implied subject seemed to be We,
not I. But this seemed really odd to me. The opposite shore was a
long, long ways off. It would take me at least an hour to arrive
there. It was also odd that he did not try harder to make himself
understood. After all, if he wanted to invite me, he could have tried
something other than two words. He could have pointed in the distance
and maybe I would have understood him.
At the same time, I did
not show any interest in what this man had to say. Frankly, I was a
bit on edge as to the motives of this man. I did not know what to
make of his sudden appearance. It was definitely out of the ordinary.
And, I was set on making it to the dam.
As usual, I had a
headwind. Not a strong one, but I could not use the sail. About half
way south on this stretch the reservoir narrows, where a large
peninsula juts eastward. This spit of land was my first goal. I
marked my progress past it on a rock on the western shore. It seemed
like I was treading water, making no headway. But I persisted, and
eventually the boulder slipped astern. I then chose another marker,
and in this manner met each immediate goal and eased my mind. If I
just keep this up, I will inevitably reach the dam, I thought.
Once past this narrowing,
I entered into the penultimate stretch. On the horizon to the east I
could just barely see the islands that I had visited a couple months
earlier. Houseboats find shelter to lee of them and partiers sing
their songs until midnight.
It was long in coming,
but at one pm. I reached the island at the mouth of the channel leading to the dam. The sun was now too far to the west for my awning
to be of much use. But if I set course a few more degrees southward, the sun would slip behind the awning and I could paddle in
the shade. So that is what I did, heading towards the island.
Life is a trade-off. A
little of this for a bit of that. I chose the shade for a longer
distance to travel.
But this was a mistake. I
should have hugged the eastern shore. From the island to the
channel's entrance is not very far, maybe less than 100 meters. But
now that I was at the island, a strong headwind funneled down the channel from the dam.
It was very difficult to
traverse this stretch. I sprinted, persisted, and sprinted some more. Imagining
Jerry Lewis running high-legged helped put a smile on my face. But my
shoulders were beginning to ache, and my resolve was waning. As short as it was, this distance was the toughest of my journey, requiring the expenditure of Herculean reserve.
Once
I had entered the channel, I could see the dam, partially hidden by
the spits of land along the southern shore. I was now on the home
stretch. Because I had been here a few months previously, I knew that
it would be about one more hour until I arrived. Only one more hour –
if the headwind died.
And it did. About 20
minutes later. Again, I went about measuring my progress, this time
by the houseboats moored along the northern shore. First, two boats.
Further on, a cluster of six.
I could now see the
entire dam. On the southern shore I could read „Bhumidol“ in
large white lettering. When it was built, in 1965, this dam was
Thailand's largest. According to a commemorative plaque, it was one
of the world's ten largest. Maybe that was true then, but not any
more.
Now, just meters from the dock, the dam loomed large before me. But I could not untie my
awning. My nylon string was unravelling, and I was pulling out
individual strands from the knot. What was worse was that a houseboat
wanted to dock and was honking at me. A woman on shore yelled to me.
„Mister, mister!“ I paddled out of the way.
A minute later I had the
awning down. I eased up to the wooden pavilion and docked.
Docked at Bhumidol dam |
I unloaded my gear and
drank some water. At the dock a woman slept on a bench in the shade.
Entering and exiting the water with the boat can be difficult. One
needs to find an access road that leads to the surface of the water.
Here, at the dock I had a road, but the road was a few meters above
the dock. I looked around and saw that to the left the road continued
sloping down to the water. So I paddled my boat around a couple
houseboats and arrived at the ramp, where I solicited a man's help. We then carried the boat a few
meters up to the location of my gear.
I looked around for the
man who offered to drive me below the dam. He was nowhere to be
found. Like a mirage in the desert, he had vanished. Ah, the
surprises of adventure travel! What to do?
To the kayak's stern I
tied my handcart. Since I planned on entering the river downstream
beyond the dam, I did not want to pack up the boat only to unpack it
shortly afterwards. Instead, I hoped to tow the boat with the gear
loaded astern, over the wheels of the handcart. I had tested this
method back in Mae Sot. It seemed to work well with an empty boat.
Now, with all my gear loaded on it, could I make it?
No, no, no! What I was
thinking? The boat was far too heavy to tow. I traversed less than
one kilometer in about 45 minutes. I tried holding the bow on my head
and pushing the stern with the handcart along the road. This worked
far better than pulling it, but still it was impossible to cover the
distance. It was already nearly five pm.
When I was about ready to
give up and hitch a ride, a man stopped. He opened the tailgate of
his pickup truck and leaned the bow of the boat on it.
Get in and hold it down,
he said.
I was skeptical. I did
not want to proceed like this. The handcart was not strong enough to
withstand the speed of the truck. The torque produced while turning
would surely break off a plastic wheel bracket. Yet, I climbed in and
held the bow. Again, the situation placed its weighty thumb on the
scale.
Drive slow, I cautioned.
The next few minutes were
punctuated by me crying out, Cha cha! Slow! But the driver
didn't heed my commands. He drove on, far too fast to be safe. We
passed the hotel and a police check-point. We turned down a dirt
road, went over patches of rock. After fifteen minutes we arrived at
a beautiful location on the bank of the river. The handcart had
survived!
Now I was relieved. Not
only about the handcart, but for the accomplishment of the journey.
When I had reached the dock at the dam, I had not sensed as much
relief as I thought I would. Maybe I knew that I was not finished,
that the difficult part stood in front of me: portaging the boat.
But now on the river
bank, downstream from the two dams, I could relax. Nearby was a
concrete shelter, like a gazebo, with lights. The air was fresh. The
water ran swiftly. From here to Tak I would have current, making the going a cinch. I prepared
for the night beneath a bridge. Nearby a woman collected stones with
her sister and children. I excused myself and bathed in the current.
Where you from?
She spoke English well.
The stones they were collecting were for a children's game. She
worked for a foreign engineering firm in Bangkok. We chatted amicably
a few minutes. Then she turned her attention to what seemed to be the
reason she had approached me.
You will spend the night
here?
Yes.
Maybe the river will
rise.
Oh, really?
They open the doors of
the dam at midnight.
Oh, really?
I don't know the
schedule. But I think from midnight until five am.
I cut to the chase: How
high does the river rise?
She consulted with her
sister. About two meters. I looked at my camp site. My gear was about
one foot above the water. It was time to relocate.
She asked a couple
youngsters to help move the boat to higher ground. They had been
playfully jumping off the bridge I was camped under, catching
themselves downstream on a ladder of inner tubes. We relocated my gear.
I lashed my boat to the bridge pylon, then I walked into town.
It was dark. I found a
restaurant easily and ordered a couple bowls of noodle soup. The
waiter, Guide was his name, chatted with me. He said they opened the
floodgates of the dam every night, from midnight to five, just like
the woman had told me. And how high does the water rise? About two
meters, he confirmed with an older customer.
Guide drove me back to
the river on his motorcycle. We ate a snack of roti together before he motored home. The swift current looked inviting. I placed all my gear on the bow and
stern, bathed my toes in TIMI anti-fungal cream, and crawled beneath
my mosquito net. Another day had come to an end. I was almost home.
Day 10 – 7 December ( 9
hours) Bhumidol Dam to Tak
In the morning I looked
at the level of the river. I could still see the concrete bench I had
sat on to bathe. The water had risen only half a foot. Why didn't the
locals know how high the river would rise? Was this a blind spot of
theirs?
Mist still hovered above
the river as I set off this morning. The scene was gorgeous, the temperature refreshing. The river
meandered, and as usual, I sought out the coolness of the shade, now
on the eastern bank.
My foot fungus was not
any better, but I would be off the river soon – unless I decided to
continue on to Bangkok. To be honest, this thought actually crossed
my mind. The impetus of the journey pulled me to the water, like the
impetus of a sedentary life pulled others to the couch.
If the current was strong
in the morning, by noon it had weakened considerably. And the river became
shallow. I ran aground a few times. Running aground was not a
major problem. I simply stepped out of the boat and walked it with the bowline, like a dog on a leash, to
deeper water. Then I jumped back in.
But problems are always lurking. Running aground could have become a major problem if I had entered a pocket of shallow water from which I could not have exited without portaging the boat. Portaging sucks.
But problems are always lurking. Running aground could have become a major problem if I had entered a pocket of shallow water from which I could not have exited without portaging the boat. Portaging sucks.
Today, with the current
running strong, I took drifting breaks. I let the river propel me
while I indulged in Overload cookies. The current usually swiveled
the boat to float stern first downstream, which was surely the result of a complex algorithm involving weight distribution, hull speed, and possibly the Froude number. But I wasn't overly concerned about this; rather I was preoccupied with the chocolate on chocolate confection.
I encountered two bridges
this afternoon. The first one was barely high enough for the mast to
pass under. But the second, less than an hour south of the first, was
not. I had to step the mast. This I did by untying the two backstays
and with the other shrouds still attached, swung the base of the mast
astern. Having passed under this bridge, I stopped downstream to set
the mast upright.
At four pm. I began to tire.
One woman on the right bank was preparing dinner on a boat landing. I
stopped to visit as I took down the awning. She was cutting up frogs.
She held up one for me to see. It didn't look like a frog. She said,
It is a baby frog. Then she reached into a bucket beside her and
showed me a mature one. That frog, stretching nearly a foot, was easy
to recognize. No blind spot there.
Her young son, about 7
years old, joined us. I gave him and his sister Overload cookies. The
boy opened his and threw the plastic wrapper in the river.
Tak was about five
kilometers further. I said good-bye and began to look for a sandbar
for the night.
At this point the river
laid bare many islands. I chose a beach on one, but then changed my
mind, thinking I would like to have more evening sun. I paddled
across the river and set up camp on a different shore. Though it was already 4:30 pm., the
sun was still too strong for comfort, so I strung up my awning. I ate
dinner and wrote in my journal. Then I prepared the boat for the
night.
This plot of sand, like
nearly all, was very low. The high point was maybe a half foot above
the water. As I laid down to sleep, I noticed the water level was
rising. I timed it, and soon determined that in a short while I would
no longer be on dry land. I pulled the boat to the highest point,
tied it off, and loaded all my gear on the bow and stern and hoped
for the best.
Day 11 - 9 December (1 hour) Tak to Mae Sot
Hoping helped. Nothing
bad happened due to the river rising. The cockpit of the boat even
stayed dry, contrary to what happened a few nights ago. Why this was
so, I will never know.
There was no land nearby,
so I prepared this morning without leaving the boat, wanting to keep
my feet dry. The water, though, was only half a foot deep. I guess
the floodgates were opened again during the night. I should have
thought of this possibility before setting up camp.
With the current strong,
it took me less than an hour to reach Tak. At one point I could look
far into the distance and see a bridge. Maybe this was the bridge
that led to Mae Sot. I tried to clarify this with a man along the
river but failed.
A short distance
further downstream was a pedestrian bridge. Beyond that, about one
kilometer away, was the bridge leading to Mae Sot.
Soon I would have to
decide where to exit the river. The current was carrying me swiftly
past the pedestrian bridge. On the left bank at the base of the
bridge I could see an access road to the water. That would be an
excellent place to exit the Ping, I thought. I had to make a
decision quickly. If I continued to the main bridge and found no
access road, I would be in trouble.
I was about 50 meters
south of the pedestrian bridge when I finally decided to exit there.
That meant paddling upstream as hard as I could. If I stopped
paddling, the river would decide for me and I would drift downstream.
Directly against the
current I paddled. I was afraid to try to cut across diagonally,
thinking that I would drift too far south of the access road. I
waited until I was about 50 meters north of it, then began heading to
the eastern bank.
Many people were at the
street market and I could hear the loudspeakers. One lone man watched
my trials. Within a few meters of the bank, I let the boat drift
backwards until I reached the road. Slippery mud greeted me. I tied
off the boat and went scouting.
I asked a vendor, Can I
exit the river at the next bridge?
He assured me I could.
But I wasn't convinced. If we had a miscommunication or he were
mistaken I would I would be stuck in the river; I would not be able to carry my gear
up the bank. I walked around the market. A parade was in progress.
Six prancing horses passed me. A man in a turtle costume cried out to
me, Hello!
At that moment I decided
my kayaking trip on the Ping river was finished. I walked back to the
boat and started the long process of packing up my gear. Just then,
two girls, about twelve years old, rode up on a bike. They watched me
pack. Soon, more classmates joined them.
They were earnest in
helping me. One girl bought me a can of ice coffee. Another washed
out my rags in the river, slipping in the mud in the process, while
yet another disassembled my mast base. Leaving my extra bottles of
water on the shore, I loaded my gear onto the handcart. Following my
entourage, I pulled it up the access road and on to the street. Then
they found me a tuk-tuk to take me to the bus station.
But I was thinking, maybe
I would like to go to the T-junction and hitch to Mae Sot. I was
still not completely sure where I was, so I asked the driver where
the junction was. He replied, Krai, with
a mid-tone. Far away. So the school kids took souvenir photos
and I drove off to the bus station.
Or rather the T-junction.
Due to a miscommunication between me and the driver, we traveled
krai. but no harm was done. We crossed the bridge and drove
around the bend to the junction. The tuk-tuk departed as I stood in
the shade of a small road sign.
Two minutes later I was
sitting in the cab of an 18 wheeler. Normally, the driver delivered
corn from Mae Sot to Phitsanulok. He was on a return trip with empty
carriages. Only my gear bag was lying on the huge bed.
Yet I was not sure I had
all my gear. Though I double-checked the access road to the river, as
I rode the tuk-tuk I wondered, Did I pack the wooden base of the
mast? I thought to tell the driver to return, but impetus forced me
forward.
Having arrived in Mae
Sot, I unpacked my gear. Indeed, I had left the wooden mast base on
the shore beneath the pedestrian bridge.
The next days I waited
anxiously for the school kids to send me the photos, so I would have
their address and could ask them to go get the wooden base for me.
But no photos ever came. So, four days later I hitched back to Tak.
I waited only 30 seconds
for a ride out of Mae Sot. The driver who stopped told me he was a
civil engineer. He made dams. He had built one in Laos. This seemed
odd, because I had been thinking a long while about kayaking the
Mekong and was wondering if there were dams along the stretch from
Vientiane to the Cambodian border. And now, here was this man giving
me the information. Yes, he said. He had built one on the Mekong,
near the capital. Was this another message from Buddha, or merely a
coincidence?
He dropped me off at the
Saam-Yaet Mae Sot, the T-junction. From there I walked to the
bridge over the Ping and checked out whether I could have exited the
river at this point. On the right bank there was a road. It was rocky
but manageable. On the left bank the access road was even better. If I
should one day continue on this river to Bangkok, I now knew my
options for launching the boat.
I walked along the river
on an overgrown path. An hour later I reached the pedestrian bridge
and looked for the mast base. I did not see it. My six bottles of
water were gone. I looked again, and then I saw it. With only a thin
edge of the wooden base facing me, I understood why I had overlooked
it. But this was not a full explanation. I was left to wonder why I
simply had not looked more carefully the first time.
Losing things, even small
items, makes me feel like I am losing my mind. Like I am beginning to
unravel. It also makes me feel wanting, as if a fragment of is my being is AWOL. But now, with my wooden base in hand, I felt whole again. I
had found the piece of my missing self.
Paradoxically, if I was now whole, I was
still missing something. This journey had revealed many blind spots.
Maybe that is the nature of travel. Or, maybe I was being too hard on myself. Yet, this
self-knowledge left me disconcerted, and I wondered how to interpret
it.
George Saunders, the
American author, gives some advice: Don't be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Stay open, forever, so open it
hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world
without end, amen.
To be sure, I'm confused, and it is partly due to that state of being that leads to me ask so many questions. Still, answers are
comforting. And I now had the answer to the question, What is it like
to kayak from Hot to Tak?