Ballin' in Chiang Mai

After leaving the concrete jungle of Kuala Lumpur (and it's far less friendly exchange rate), I was eager to explore Thailand's second-largest city, Chiang Mai. Located in the northern region of the country, Chiang Mai has in excess of 300 temples - almost as many as are in Bangkok - condensed within a much smaller geographic area. As such, I saw a lot of wats (Thai word for temple) during my stay in the revered "cultural capital" of Thailand. And had a bit of room mishap (don't worry, I'll try to keep my usual grousing to a minimum).


I always like a good deal. During my formative years, my parents (my mother to a far lesser extent) and grandparents drilled their fiscally conservative views into my head. However, there are also many people in my life (my brother, several of my friends) who have routinely encouraged me to indulge in the finer things in life. Although I usually heed my elders' advice while stateside, I made a conscious decision to splurge with reckless abandon upon my return to Thailand. Flush with cash from my...wait, no, no, it was a volunteer teaching position. Not to be deterred by my shrinking bank account, I was steadfast in implementing a strategy of impulsive spending for the duration of my stay in Chiang Mai. Below is a detailed list of where that extra coin was dropped:

1. I quickly bypassed a string of guest houses charging $5 per night and strolled into the far ritzier Smile House, which required me to shell out a whopping $7 per night. (Although the main attraction of SM was its inflated occupancy rate, my interest was also piqued after reading that the building once served as the "safe house" of the infamous Shan-Chinese opium warlord Khun Sa, more familiarly known as "Opium King," when he came to Chiang Mai. Come to think of it, that might explain the AK-47 I found underneath the bed... )

2. I always opted for the more expensive chicken fried rice over its vegetable counterpart. (I need my protein. This body is no accident.)

3. Instead of tramping all over the city to see the sights, I elected to take tuk-tuks everywhere. My feet were appreciative; my brain wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Most of my rides were spent trying to comprehend how there aren't more tuk-tuk related deaths, given that the drivers are often turning around to engage in conversation with their passengers, greeting people along the sidewalks, and veering blindly into oncoming traffic. My rather skittish look in the picture below should tell the story.


On my third day in Chiang Mai, I ventured to two very different places. At each locale, I sought the assistance of an individual who could not have been more dissimilar than the other. One had long, flowing hair; the other had a shaved head. One was dressed in blue; the other wore orange. One spoke no English; the other had quite impressive English skills. Oh, and one was an inmate and the other was a monk. (Sorry, I really thought you would be more interested in the garment color differences.)


Given my first Thai massage experience (see "Rubdown"), one would think that I would make an effort to visit a more upscale and professional establishment the next time I had a hankering for a good kneading. Well "one" would think that, but not this guy. Instead, I meandered over to the Chiang Mai Women's Prison for a full body massage. Despite the welcoming, Swiss chalet-like exterior of the "prison shop" (see above photo), I walked through the front door with a slightly halting gait. After the not-so-friendly receptionist/warden checked me for weapons and drugs, I crossed the double-steel threshold and cautiously entered the massage area. As I stood in the dimly lit bowels of a Thai correctional facility waiting for the three bored-looking female convicts sitting before me to decide who was going to have the honor of my company for the next hour, I considered the absurdity of the situation. I rated it an 8 on my admittedly rudimentary 1-10 scale of absurdity. I was officially out of my element. A mere 9 months ago, I was making binders in my Manhattan cubicle; now I was enlisting the services of female inmates in some place called Chiang Mai. What the hell was I doing?

I abruptly ceased trying to make sense of the situation and turned my attention to my surroundings. The lady (you can still be referred to as a 'lady" while in prison, right?) assigned to dole out my purchased punishment was about 5"1, 100 pounds, and named Nit. We got along fabulously and she made me feel right at home. Well, I really had no choice in feeling "at home" due to my slight blunder with the prison-issued massage uniform. Before commencing, I was told (well, actually just sort of shoved into a small side room seeing as how they spoke no English) to don a pair of pants and top that closely resembled the scrubs often worn by medical professionals. However, instead of a trusty elastic waistband, the pants required me to somehow fashion a makeshift belt out of a long string that emerged from the fabric clinging tenuously to my hip. (The other two customers seemed to have little trouble, but I could not figure it out. A Yale degree a genius make not.) When I emerged from the side room and tried to quickly lie down in an effort to prevent my pants from falling down, Nit took pity on me. Wrapping her arms firmly around my waist, she adroitly constructed a tight knot to uphold my trousers, but not before she ensured that her cohorts were made fully aware of my gaffe.

The massage itself was uneventful. Nit could speak no English, but she did communicate that I should utter "ok" if I felt any discomfort during the session. Which worked out great because I usually say "ok" when I want something to be altered or stopped. Anyway, I managed to use Nit's predetermined safe word less than 100 times (kept it in double digits; I'm such a trooper), but was disappointed that I couldn't ask her what she was in for. (Rest easy Mother; all of the muscle maidens had to be within 6 months of their release date in order to be involved in the massage program. At least that's what Lonely Planet said; for all I know she could have been a serial killer.) Given the ferocity of her kneading, I'd guess that Nit wasn't incarcerated for a white-collar offense. The intensity of the rubdown far surpassed that which I experienced back within the friendly (too friendly?) confines of Ao Luk. I don't know why I was surprised. This was prison after all.


After a tearful goodbye with my new acquaintances, I set out to explore some of the wats for which Chiang Mai is famous. After looking a few over (they were beautiful, I took way too many pictures, yada, yada, yada), I proceeded to Wat Chedi Luang to attend the daily "Monk Chat." As I approached a young monk, I was careful not to disturb him from the book he was reading. Perhaps a bit too careful as he did not hear me mumbling "sawatdee khrab" until I had said it three times. After a slightly awkward 5 seconds of me greeting an oblivious monk, he suddenly looked up and invited me to sit down. He introduced himself as Sunthorn Bo and we had a very enjoyable 20-minute conversation about topics ranging from his life as a monk to American girls to President Obama's economic stimulus plan (I kid you not). The very affable 25-year old was as curious about my "exciting" life in America as I was about his life as a monk. I'll spare you the details, but the talk was a wonderful conclusion to what was a very strange day.


I wish I could say that everything was peachy in Chiang Mai, but that just wouldn't fit my style. (I'm not that good at writing from a positive-person viewpoint. Must work on that.) My primary grievance was with the Smile House (in no small part because I was throwing down an extra 2 dollars a night). My first night in Room 25 was perfectly pleasant. The following morning I was informed that I would have to move because someone had "reserved" my room. After learning that people can (and apparently do) reserve specific rooms at low-end Thai guest houses, I moved my gear into my new bedroom chamber and hoped I would not have to move again. (Well that wouldn't be cause for a multiple paragraph complaint, now would it?) Naturally, I was awakened in my new room at 4AM by a rambunctious rooster, conveniently stationed 5 feet from my window, who was intent on showing all the hens what his vocal chords were made of. Don't slam head against wall. Don't slam head against wall...

Nonplussed, I groggily stumbled down to the registration desk to request a move to the other side of the building. They accommodated me with my third room in 2 nights. This one appeared to be in working order and I felt I would be quite comfortable in my new digs. Until I took stock of the bathroom and its broken screen. With a veritable four-lane expressway for mosquitoes into my john, I was forced to ask for yet another room. At this point, the staff was completely exasperated with my multiple room change requests and decided to give me what I wanted all along: a return ticket to good ol' Room 25. I never thought I could be so happy to see a $7 hotel room.

Next stop Bangkok. The comedy of errors with my lodgings was only beginning...