Group dynamics become paramount in survival situations. Communicate effectively to work together, and the sum is far greater than its parts. On the other hand, miscommunication leading to disfunctionality can literally cripple the strongest crew. We awoke in the morning with a fractured group that did not believe in its leaders, who were not listening to their followers. So my lovely lady and myself endeavored to promote communication and synergy among our elements. We began with the suggestion of making a mental map of the region through which we had wandered.
A mental map, committed to form by drawing on paper, becomes a very tangible piece of communication. When a number of them appear, disparate geographic ideas become part of a group's mental map. That is not to say that the group's mental map is necessarily reflective of the geographic reality. But in a situation like this, the geographic reality is truly not as important as the group's idea of reality. No one will get out alive unless the group works together. The group cannot work together unless it has a commonly agreed upon reality. If each member has a different mental map, a different reality, than each member will react differently when faced with new information, like a trail or a water source or an informative view point.
So we made mental maps in a sketchbook that I happened to be carrying. Reinhold, Boone and my girlfriend all drew legible, useful maps. And it turned out that they were remarkably similar. Which was really cool. Now, time for a gameplan.
The gameplan was water. We were all very dehydrated. You can survive in a warm environment for a hell of a long time (days to weeks) without food. Your body goes into survival mode, it practices conservation, it metabolizes more efficiently, it starts burning fat when fuel runs low, and will eventually burn muscle when fat runs low. But water, water is another story, as my 6th grade biology teacher taught me with the memorable phrase "Without water, metabolism comes to a G-R-I-N-D-I-N-G halt!" He occasionally accentuated the point by throwing a chair across the room. For real.
Returning to the story ... We decided to go for water. We descended from the ridge back to the ill-directed streambed, and now placed our faith in its upstream water potential. We had a seen a muddy puddle or two the day before. Perhaps upstream it would be running, copious and clear.
We came upon a puddle of mud. It was a few feet wide, perhaps a foot deep, revealed a remarkable biodiversity when disturbed, and had the consistency and coloration of thick chocolate milk. Reinhold had a LifeStraw (check out the link!) in his pack, a product designed for just this circumstance. We scooped up the liquiaceous mud, filtered it through a spare shirt into a tupperware, and then slurped up the resultant liquid through the LifeStraw. It smelled of rotting organic matter, it tasted sulfurous and bitter, but lordy lord it was WET!
The water, however filthy, helped tremendously. Dehydration, and the heat exhaustion that can accompany it, produce profound feelings of despondency, along with lethargy and muddled thoughts. We continued onward, with a bit more vigor, and soon found bamboo growing alongside the streambed. Bamboo has the outstanding trait of holding water in the segments of its trunk. Boone hacked open a section with a knife, stuck a bamboo straw into the craw, and sucked.* Sweet juicy flavorful moist refreshing water was the reward. Remember this the next time you are lost in the rainforest.
We kept moving upstream, and came upon real flowing water, crystal clear pools of the stuff. We sucked and sucked, lying on our bellies with our faces inches from the stream, LifeStraw between our lips, taking turns while we saturated our withered cellular structure with robust water molecules. Over the course of a half hour, the entire group, save Mia, fully rejuvenated. Mia chose not to drink any jungle water, due to a hellacious history of parasites that were still severely impacting her.
With confidence reasonably restored, we directed our attention to finding our way home. We debated on strategies, and decided that we should set a course towards the flooded forest we had passed by yesterday. We figured it was roughly South Southwest, and resolved to set forth in this direction. I pointed out the likelihood of trails appearing that ran in different directions, highlighting our tendency to follow a trail, even if in the wrong direction. The possibility was noted, and the group surged forth from the streambed, in a South Southwesterly direction.
"I found a trail!"
"So did I"
"How does yours look?"
"Not so great, how about yours?"
"Looking good. More of a Northwest direction, but definitely a trail."
"Sweet, we're moving towards you"
Never underestimate the comfort derived from a trail. Given a choice, humans will always follow a trail instead of hacking through trackless wilderness. For that matter, so will most ungulates.
Well, off we went, following one trail to the Northwest, then another to the South, which soon bent Southeast, and then we changed direction and headed North, possibly to compensate for the last bearing. Reinhold was far ahead, occasionally hooting so that we could locate him. Boone was ahead as well, endeavoring to help Reinhold search for trail, while also keeping us posted on Reinhold's whereabouts. Each hoot seemed to reveal a new direction of travel, leaving us flustered, then frustrated, and then furious. Yesterday was repeating itself. We stumbled through a maze, becoming more and more disoriented, and less and less confident that we would see the solid line of a road, or smell the sweet scent of hot asphalt under a tropical sun.
Anger, fueled by fear, rose in my throat. I yelled as loudly as I could to Boone, who was within shouting distance, although still cloaked by jungle. Reinhold, unexpectedly close, could hear me also. They did not know it, but we had reached a breaking point. My girlfriend and I, along with Jacob and Mia, had just held a vote of no confidence, or something close to it. We could not continue to blindly follow a man who appeared to us to be blind. We had to know why our direction kept on changing. We had to know what our direction was. We had to know what the fuck was going through Reinhold's head every time he began to follow a new bearing.
Reinhold and Boone emerged from the jungle, moving purposefully. I said we had to stop, and talk.
"Yes of course, let us talk, but we will keep pushing forward in a northerly direction as we speak"
"NO!" "NO!"
My girlfriend and I spoke as one, even if it sounded like two separate utterances. The line had been drawn in the moist shallow jungle soil, even if our leaders did not know it. Would they stop and hear us? Or would they press onwards, pursuing the phantom trail that was always just ahead, that would either take us home or take us to hell.
Coming soon... Part IV: Strawberry Milk, Sliced White Bread and a .357 Magnum
*Somewhere, I have a video of Boone sucking bamboo water. You have never seen a happier face. If I can find it, I'll post it.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Deep Survival in the Khao Sok Rainforest, Part II: "I have a gut feeling"
Down we plunged, turning our backs to the jungle below and our faces to the harsh edges of limestone as we cautiously downclimbed. We reached the jungle floor, a happy place indeed for sore feet and hands. The path was clear, our spirits high, onwards! Into the jungle primeval!
Jungle paths are queer things. They are not like your normal hiking trail, a well-defined dirt path in the midst of vegetation. Rather, all is vegetation in the jungle. And the most one can hope for in the way of markings is the occasional knife slash on a tree. Yet, they are surprisingly legible. Eyes quickly grow accustomed to picking out the path of least resistance through a tangled web of vegetation, and that path is usually the trail. So with some practice, one can quickly see "trail" and "not a trail" through the riotous growth.
However, jungle paths have one debilitating weakness. When a Douglass Fir falls down on the Pacific Crest Trail, hikers must clamber over it until a chain-saw crew liberates the trail once more. When a huge dipterocarp falls down in the rainforest, something very different happens. All of a sudden, a patch of canopy has dissapeared, perhaps covering a few acres, and energy-giving tropical sunlight pours through the gap. Remember, rainforest canopy is remarkably good at blocking out the sun. This is why the rainforest understory is relatively open, and why us humans can hike through it with few problems, and not even have to worry about sun burn. The sudden influx of sun light causes a riot of growth, and within weeks (possibly days?) the sunlit understory has erupted into a tangled thicket.
The path abruptly ends at the beginning of this thicket, utterly lost to the eyes. It can be confidently said to exist on the far side of the thicket, continuing its reliable track. But for an area of several square acres, it is utterly lost. Which means that those following its line must fan out into the bush, blindly pushing through vines and swamps and thorns and thickets until they stumble across the trail once again.
One might reasonably guess that this was the fate that befell our stalwart sextet. Indeed, time and again, we confidently stumbled from clear, comforting path into demoralizing thicket. Sometimes we found the trail on the other side. Sometimes we backtracked. And sometimes we struck out in the trackless wilderness and stumbled upon another trail (or the same trail?). After a few hours of this, a new reality began to emerge, at least for myself and my lovely companion.
Wrong.
I voiced some of the above concerns. I was immediately shot down, most of all for the grevious sin of negative thinking.
"We WILL make it to the lake"
"It is only another hour in this direction, I have a gut feeling that if we just press on another hour, we will be at the lake"
"There is cold beer and comfortable beds at the lake, no way are we spending the night in the jungle"
"But, if we don't start thinking about water, we might end up in the extremely unpleasant scenario of camping without water" I protested.
"There is plenty of water in the lake, I have a gut feeling about this" was Reinhold's clever retort.*
The sun was too far to the west to reasonably argue for a turnaround. And besides, we didn't even know the way back. So we agreed to keep pressing on for the lake, solidly outnumbered 4 to 2. We soon hit a logging road, a sure path straight to the lake (according to Reinhold...), and confidently strode ahead, buoyed by the refreshing thoughts of cold beer.
The logging road eventually gave out, or disappeared, or reached its final tree, or something. It did not take us to the lake, despite Reinhold's gut feeling. We blindly pushed onwards, and miraculously dropped into a streambed. It was dry, no water to be had, but it was a drainage! And drainages drain to large bodies of water! So this streambed would take us to the lake! Huzzah! We hurried on at a feverish pace, inspired by deep dehydration and the fading light. We pushed around each bend expecting to see the dazzling expanse of blue open up in front of us.
We heard a shout from Reinhold, as usual out of sight and far ahead of the group. "I have a surprise for you!" we heard. Cold beer! Cold beer! A topless lemonade stand! We rounded the corner, and the streambed disappeared down a hole. Gone. Into the karst.
I have never felt so profoundly disappointed and synchronously destabilized. It was as if we were following a trail of sequential numbers, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 etc, looking for 99, and when we reached 98 we were informed that numbers only go to 98.
Reality shortly intruded upon the group. We would have to make camp in the jungle, without water, and with precious little in the way of camp amenities. We ascended the ridge that Reinhold was on, where he had found the remains of a campfire, which gave us some scant comfort that we were in a known place. We rationed our food and remaining water ( one liter for six of us), spread out a tarp on the ground, and spooned up for warmth and comfort.
* The clever reader will note that this retort is clearly fabricated. Reinhold was not yet, and to my knowledge is still not, aware that his catch phrase was an object of bitter derision.
Jungle paths are queer things. They are not like your normal hiking trail, a well-defined dirt path in the midst of vegetation. Rather, all is vegetation in the jungle. And the most one can hope for in the way of markings is the occasional knife slash on a tree. Yet, they are surprisingly legible. Eyes quickly grow accustomed to picking out the path of least resistance through a tangled web of vegetation, and that path is usually the trail. So with some practice, one can quickly see "trail" and "not a trail" through the riotous growth.
However, jungle paths have one debilitating weakness. When a Douglass Fir falls down on the Pacific Crest Trail, hikers must clamber over it until a chain-saw crew liberates the trail once more. When a huge dipterocarp falls down in the rainforest, something very different happens. All of a sudden, a patch of canopy has dissapeared, perhaps covering a few acres, and energy-giving tropical sunlight pours through the gap. Remember, rainforest canopy is remarkably good at blocking out the sun. This is why the rainforest understory is relatively open, and why us humans can hike through it with few problems, and not even have to worry about sun burn. The sudden influx of sun light causes a riot of growth, and within weeks (possibly days?) the sunlit understory has erupted into a tangled thicket.
The path abruptly ends at the beginning of this thicket, utterly lost to the eyes. It can be confidently said to exist on the far side of the thicket, continuing its reliable track. But for an area of several square acres, it is utterly lost. Which means that those following its line must fan out into the bush, blindly pushing through vines and swamps and thorns and thickets until they stumble across the trail once again.
One might reasonably guess that this was the fate that befell our stalwart sextet. Indeed, time and again, we confidently stumbled from clear, comforting path into demoralizing thicket. Sometimes we found the trail on the other side. Sometimes we backtracked. And sometimes we struck out in the trackless wilderness and stumbled upon another trail (or the same trail?). After a few hours of this, a new reality began to emerge, at least for myself and my lovely companion.
- We were defintively NOT heading towards the gap in the karsts that was our supposed target
- Reinhold was taking us in a direction that can only be said to align with his "gut feeling"
- It was late in the day, we were low on water, and we might be spending the night in the jungle
- We did not know how to find our way back, due to stumbling off-trail so many times
Wrong.
I voiced some of the above concerns. I was immediately shot down, most of all for the grevious sin of negative thinking.
"We WILL make it to the lake"
"It is only another hour in this direction, I have a gut feeling that if we just press on another hour, we will be at the lake"
"There is cold beer and comfortable beds at the lake, no way are we spending the night in the jungle"
"But, if we don't start thinking about water, we might end up in the extremely unpleasant scenario of camping without water" I protested.
"There is plenty of water in the lake, I have a gut feeling about this" was Reinhold's clever retort.*
The sun was too far to the west to reasonably argue for a turnaround. And besides, we didn't even know the way back. So we agreed to keep pressing on for the lake, solidly outnumbered 4 to 2. We soon hit a logging road, a sure path straight to the lake (according to Reinhold...), and confidently strode ahead, buoyed by the refreshing thoughts of cold beer.
The logging road eventually gave out, or disappeared, or reached its final tree, or something. It did not take us to the lake, despite Reinhold's gut feeling. We blindly pushed onwards, and miraculously dropped into a streambed. It was dry, no water to be had, but it was a drainage! And drainages drain to large bodies of water! So this streambed would take us to the lake! Huzzah! We hurried on at a feverish pace, inspired by deep dehydration and the fading light. We pushed around each bend expecting to see the dazzling expanse of blue open up in front of us.
We heard a shout from Reinhold, as usual out of sight and far ahead of the group. "I have a surprise for you!" we heard. Cold beer! Cold beer! A topless lemonade stand! We rounded the corner, and the streambed disappeared down a hole. Gone. Into the karst.
I have never felt so profoundly disappointed and synchronously destabilized. It was as if we were following a trail of sequential numbers, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 etc, looking for 99, and when we reached 98 we were informed that numbers only go to 98.
Reality shortly intruded upon the group. We would have to make camp in the jungle, without water, and with precious little in the way of camp amenities. We ascended the ridge that Reinhold was on, where he had found the remains of a campfire, which gave us some scant comfort that we were in a known place. We rationed our food and remaining water ( one liter for six of us), spread out a tarp on the ground, and spooned up for warmth and comfort.
* The clever reader will note that this retort is clearly fabricated. Reinhold was not yet, and to my knowledge is still not, aware that his catch phrase was an object of bitter derision.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Deep Survival in the Khao Sok Rainforest, Part I: Frolicking on Karsts
Let me begin by promoting my father's personal bible, a book by Lawrence Gonzalez entitled "Deep Survival". In a nutshell, an extreme adventure journalist with a neuroscience education tackles how people get into "survival" situations, and then how (or if) they get out alive. It is fascinating and thought-provoking, most especially for anyone who has spent time in the backcountry. It is not a book about people building shelters and finding water. No, it is about understanding why smart people do stupid things.
Now then, in a flagrant non-sequiter, I'm going to tell a short story about a short hike that I took in mid-March in Khao Sok National Park, Thailand. My girlfriend and I were part of a group of six. The instigator of the hike was Boone, a charismatic California Buddhist with a mission to change the world. There was also Reinhold, a German ex-pat who owned property bordering the Park which would serve as our trail head. And finally there were Jacob & Mia, two very Californian (at least in diet and attitude) rock climbers. (All names have been changed to facilitate full disclosure). The plan was to hike from Reinhold's property north to Cheow Lairn Lake, a vast reservoir lake in the Park, where we would be picked up by a boat and taken to the floating raft houses, where cold beer bottles were patiently perspiring. Three hours of hiking through verdant old-growth rainforest, marveling at Nature's fecundity while savoring the prospect of mankind's finest fermentation.
Again in the interests of full disclosure: There were three (3) lies in the opening sentence of the last paragraph.
We left the lodge second thing in the morning, arriving at Reinhold's place a couple hours late. Upon greeting us, he then informed us that the Thai guide, a National Park ranger, had called in sick that day.
The five of us all responded with a variant on "Sure, no problem, we're ready for an adventure". My girlfriend and I both had backpacks full of food, water and clothes to spend the night in, as we were packed for a couple days of playing on the lake. Boone, Jacob and Mia had sent their gear and supplies in a truck to meet the boat the normal way, via a paved road. Reinhold had a daypack on, contents unknown and unasked. We clarified with Reinhold that the boat would be waiting for us from 2pm to 3pm, and if we had not reached the lake by 3pm, he said we would turn around, giving us 3 hours to return before dark.
And we were off! Into the jungle primeval, with the exquisite feeling that only the confidence that we would emerge and meet civilization on the other side could engender. The lack of knowledge, in retrospect, is rather impressive. We did not know the trail and we had no map. We did not know this piece of wilderness, its qualities and particularities We did not know how much water people had, or how much food they had, or any other sort of supplies. We did not know a damn thing about our companions. We did not know their wilderness experience, we did not know their medical issues, we did not know their personal styles or expectations. About the only thing we did know was that we would emerge from the jungle with less blood than when we entered, thanks to the voracious leeches of Khao Sok. But enough foreshadowing, back to the story!
Words will pathetically fail to communicate the grandeur of the rainforest that we entered, or even the awe that we felt in response to the magical miracles of the rainforest. Anywhere one looks, up into the canopy or down into the leaf litter or straight ahead into the spider's web, Life is composing its masterpiece, showcasing the most exotic, marvelous examples it has to offer. I have never felt so completely enchanted by the miracle of life as I did in that rainforest.
So we tromped onwards, we scaled jagged vertical limestone karsts*, we descended into lush jungle valleys, we stopped and marvelled and rejoiced, we hugged trees and got scratched up by thorny vines, we took pictures and brushed against poisonous nettles that produced a burning sensation that lasted for weeks. We descended from the first karst and met a stream flowing towards us ... for all the world it appeared to be flowing uphill. Upon closer inspection, we realized it was diving down into the karst, disappearing from atmospheric influences, and entering the unknown world of labyrinthine limestone faults and caverns. We stopped, a lot, to inspect the latest entry on the "holy shit this is cool, check it out!" list.
We finally reached the top of a second karst, which we were informed was the half-way point. From the top, Reinhold (who had become our de facto guide) and Boone took a compass sighting, targeting a gap in the karst cliffs which circled the jungle ahead of us, into which we were about to descend. It was early afternoon, our pace had been slow due to the frequent stops, but we felt strong. All that stood between us and the lake was a steep descent, an hour's hike through the jungle below, and finally pushing through the gap on the far side of the valley.
Coming up next...
Part II: "I have a gut feeling" - Reinhold
* A karst refers to a body of limestone that has been severely eroded by dissolution via slightly acidified water. The acid reacts with the calcium carbonate in the limestone, causing it to effervesce (make bubbles). The bubbles are carbon dioxide; the remainder of the original calcium carbonate molecule is dissolved in the water. The end result is a lot of holes. This produces the famous caves of limestone formations, such as are found in Kentucky or the Yucatan. Karts in Thailand are usually "tower" karsts, meaning they look like isolated cliffs, towering above the landscape. The dissolution process produces incredibly sharp jagged edges, making the rock rather dangerous. For more information, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karst
Now then, in a flagrant non-sequiter, I'm going to tell a short story about a short hike that I took in mid-March in Khao Sok National Park, Thailand. My girlfriend and I were part of a group of six. The instigator of the hike was Boone, a charismatic California Buddhist with a mission to change the world. There was also Reinhold, a German ex-pat who owned property bordering the Park which would serve as our trail head. And finally there were Jacob & Mia, two very Californian (at least in diet and attitude) rock climbers. (All names have been changed to facilitate full disclosure). The plan was to hike from Reinhold's property north to Cheow Lairn Lake, a vast reservoir lake in the Park, where we would be picked up by a boat and taken to the floating raft houses, where cold beer bottles were patiently perspiring. Three hours of hiking through verdant old-growth rainforest, marveling at Nature's fecundity while savoring the prospect of mankind's finest fermentation.
Again in the interests of full disclosure: There were three (3) lies in the opening sentence of the last paragraph.
We left the lodge second thing in the morning, arriving at Reinhold's place a couple hours late. Upon greeting us, he then informed us that the Thai guide, a National Park ranger, had called in sick that day.
"But it is ok, I can lead the group, I have taken this trail before, I can get us most of the way to the lake for sure, we might lose the trail towards the end, but it is ok, we can turn back or we can spend the night in the jungle" (note: please read all Reinhold quotes with a friendly, arrogant German accent).
The five of us all responded with a variant on "Sure, no problem, we're ready for an adventure". My girlfriend and I both had backpacks full of food, water and clothes to spend the night in, as we were packed for a couple days of playing on the lake. Boone, Jacob and Mia had sent their gear and supplies in a truck to meet the boat the normal way, via a paved road. Reinhold had a daypack on, contents unknown and unasked. We clarified with Reinhold that the boat would be waiting for us from 2pm to 3pm, and if we had not reached the lake by 3pm, he said we would turn around, giving us 3 hours to return before dark.
And we were off! Into the jungle primeval, with the exquisite feeling that only the confidence that we would emerge and meet civilization on the other side could engender. The lack of knowledge, in retrospect, is rather impressive. We did not know the trail and we had no map. We did not know this piece of wilderness, its qualities and particularities We did not know how much water people had, or how much food they had, or any other sort of supplies. We did not know a damn thing about our companions. We did not know their wilderness experience, we did not know their medical issues, we did not know their personal styles or expectations. About the only thing we did know was that we would emerge from the jungle with less blood than when we entered, thanks to the voracious leeches of Khao Sok. But enough foreshadowing, back to the story!
 |
| Rainforest tree - really big, magical |
Words will pathetically fail to communicate the grandeur of the rainforest that we entered, or even the awe that we felt in response to the magical miracles of the rainforest. Anywhere one looks, up into the canopy or down into the leaf litter or straight ahead into the spider's web, Life is composing its masterpiece, showcasing the most exotic, marvelous examples it has to offer. I have never felt so completely enchanted by the miracle of life as I did in that rainforest.
 |
| Scaling vertical karsts |
 |
| Give this fungus a hand! |
So we tromped onwards, we scaled jagged vertical limestone karsts*, we descended into lush jungle valleys, we stopped and marvelled and rejoiced, we hugged trees and got scratched up by thorny vines, we took pictures and brushed against poisonous nettles that produced a burning sensation that lasted for weeks. We descended from the first karst and met a stream flowing towards us ... for all the world it appeared to be flowing uphill. Upon closer inspection, we realized it was diving down into the karst, disappearing from atmospheric influences, and entering the unknown world of labyrinthine limestone faults and caverns. We stopped, a lot, to inspect the latest entry on the "holy shit this is cool, check it out!" list.
We finally reached the top of a second karst, which we were informed was the half-way point. From the top, Reinhold (who had become our de facto guide) and Boone took a compass sighting, targeting a gap in the karst cliffs which circled the jungle ahead of us, into which we were about to descend. It was early afternoon, our pace had been slow due to the frequent stops, but we felt strong. All that stood between us and the lake was a steep descent, an hour's hike through the jungle below, and finally pushing through the gap on the far side of the valley.
Coming up next...
Part II: "I have a gut feeling" - Reinhold
 |
| Karst towers |
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Hadsiao Tour (see slideshow)
Hadsiao is not a particularly thrilling place, but it does have its moments. It is best experienced by strolling along its soi's, or small side streets. On February 29th, just before leaving town, I ambled along with a camera in tow, highlighting interesting aspects of a typical Thai town. Click on the "Hadsiao Walkabout" slideshow to see the photos, with comments on the interesting aspects.
Let's start with the surrounding geography. We are in an agricultural river valley; there are hills in the distance which are still forested, but everything, i mean literally EVERYTHING, flat is under cultivation. Sugar cane fields and flooded rice paddies predominate. The sugar cane appears to be big business; huge double trailer trucks loaded with cane run through town day and night destined for the processing factory just outside of town. (It makes for quite the experience. I will be biking through town on the main street, I feel the roar of an approaching cane truck, and I'm engulfed in the strangely sweet odor of diesel exhaust mixed with freshly cut sugar cane.)
Agriculture is not geographically segregated. As one approaches town, more homes appear, until the majority of the land is being lived on as opposed to cultivated. But even in the middle of town, one will see fruit orchards (see slideshow) and even rice paddies. And of course, nearly every home has its own fruit trees.
The town itself is predicated on the highway through town, a four lane strip of pavement that usually has as many non-moving vehicles (such as food carts) as the traditional sort. Nearly all commercial activity either fronts the highway or actively takes place on it (see slideshow). One market is built adjacent to the highway, the other spills onto it. Automotive shops, banks, the 7-11, restaurants, even the hip coffee house featuring wireless and comfy reclined seats; all are built right alongside the highway, exposed to the cacophony of vehicular traffic that plies the road at all hours.
Motorbikes dominate traffic. Thai teenagers get motorbikes like American teenagers get cars. And load them up with their buddies just the same. The brand spankin' new Toyota Hilux diesel pickups catch the eye, but there probably aren't as many as I think there are. I'm just jealous that Thai people get better pickup trucks than Americans. After a sprinkling of Japanese and Korean cars and pickups, we get the really interesting vehicles, the old-school Thai work trucks (see slideshow). I ain't mechanically inclined (just ask Murphy), so I can't really tell you what is going on with these home-made oddities, but I would describe them as being built of Tinker Toys with a lawnmower engine strapped to the front. They certainly sound like lawnmowers.
Which brings me to my biggest, whiniest gripe about Hadsiao. The noise. The engines are always loud, whether on a truck or a motorbike or a sewing machine. The needs of tropical construction mean insulation, and hence sound proofing, are non-existent. Street noises, therefore, are your bed room noises as well (and vice-versa, teeheehee). I can't tell you how many relaxing glasses of pineapple-mango-papaya smoothie on the front porch were rudely interrupted by the deafening sound of a motorbike roaring past. You see! My life is hard.
Continuing our walkabout...We come to the river. The river runs parallel with the highway, a few blocks to the west. It feels dead; no visible movement, no observable impact on the air temp or humidity, too far below town level to appear consequential for irrigation, in fact too far below town level to even think about. But wait a minute, this is the dry season. Take a look at the river pics (see slideshow). Note the height difference between river-level and town-level. At least 60 feet. Now imagine the river rising to town-level, like it did in October. What I think is so cool about these photos is that they reveal the three dimensional "shape" of the flood river. Kind of an inverted trapezoid, that stretches from the northern highlands all the way to Bangkok. That is an enormous quantity of water.
The park, composed of flagstones and pastel exercise equipment, is built alongside the river. It reveals an interesting aspect of Thai society, namely its relationship with the concept of public spaces. Public parks are extremely rare, and have very defined uses. For example, should one have the rare good fortune of stumbling upon a grassy turf, it is most likely off-limits for actually playing on. So when I wanted to toss a hardball with the lovely lady, we usually struck out for a bulldozed dirt pad that will someday have a house built upon it.
Yet, while public spaces receive relatively little attention, nearly every private space is intended to be somewhat public. This goes beyond waving to your neighbors who are hanging out on their porches as you walk by. People's homes literally open up to the street (see slideshow). As the photo shows, there is a garage-type sliding door that opens to reveal the front room of the house. During the day, the residents do their work in the front room, open to the street. In a similar vein, most public business (restaurants, internets, law offices) are the front rooms of houses as well. So if you ask to use the bathroom at your hip coffee house, you will find yourself squatting next to the owner's toothbrush. Wow that sounds way grosser than I intended. But you get the point, yes?
This open style of residential living leads to a very lovely thing indeed. Thai-style gardening. Nearly every home in town is fronted with a lush variety of potted plants, most of them flowering. Oh so delightful, the loveliest flowers you ever have seen! At their best, the street-side gardens of Hadsiao can create oases of verdant tranquil greenery. (see slideshow, numerous pics)
Question, for those who are interested in commenting: What experiences with Public Spaces (especially public green spaces) have you had in foreign countries? Any particularly delightful examples? Or did this become one of those "I can't wait till I'm home" longings?
Let's start with the surrounding geography. We are in an agricultural river valley; there are hills in the distance which are still forested, but everything, i mean literally EVERYTHING, flat is under cultivation. Sugar cane fields and flooded rice paddies predominate. The sugar cane appears to be big business; huge double trailer trucks loaded with cane run through town day and night destined for the processing factory just outside of town. (It makes for quite the experience. I will be biking through town on the main street, I feel the roar of an approaching cane truck, and I'm engulfed in the strangely sweet odor of diesel exhaust mixed with freshly cut sugar cane.)
Agriculture is not geographically segregated. As one approaches town, more homes appear, until the majority of the land is being lived on as opposed to cultivated. But even in the middle of town, one will see fruit orchards (see slideshow) and even rice paddies. And of course, nearly every home has its own fruit trees.
The town itself is predicated on the highway through town, a four lane strip of pavement that usually has as many non-moving vehicles (such as food carts) as the traditional sort. Nearly all commercial activity either fronts the highway or actively takes place on it (see slideshow). One market is built adjacent to the highway, the other spills onto it. Automotive shops, banks, the 7-11, restaurants, even the hip coffee house featuring wireless and comfy reclined seats; all are built right alongside the highway, exposed to the cacophony of vehicular traffic that plies the road at all hours.
Motorbikes dominate traffic. Thai teenagers get motorbikes like American teenagers get cars. And load them up with their buddies just the same. The brand spankin' new Toyota Hilux diesel pickups catch the eye, but there probably aren't as many as I think there are. I'm just jealous that Thai people get better pickup trucks than Americans. After a sprinkling of Japanese and Korean cars and pickups, we get the really interesting vehicles, the old-school Thai work trucks (see slideshow). I ain't mechanically inclined (just ask Murphy), so I can't really tell you what is going on with these home-made oddities, but I would describe them as being built of Tinker Toys with a lawnmower engine strapped to the front. They certainly sound like lawnmowers.
Which brings me to my biggest, whiniest gripe about Hadsiao. The noise. The engines are always loud, whether on a truck or a motorbike or a sewing machine. The needs of tropical construction mean insulation, and hence sound proofing, are non-existent. Street noises, therefore, are your bed room noises as well (and vice-versa, teeheehee). I can't tell you how many relaxing glasses of pineapple-mango-papaya smoothie on the front porch were rudely interrupted by the deafening sound of a motorbike roaring past. You see! My life is hard.
Continuing our walkabout...We come to the river. The river runs parallel with the highway, a few blocks to the west. It feels dead; no visible movement, no observable impact on the air temp or humidity, too far below town level to appear consequential for irrigation, in fact too far below town level to even think about. But wait a minute, this is the dry season. Take a look at the river pics (see slideshow). Note the height difference between river-level and town-level. At least 60 feet. Now imagine the river rising to town-level, like it did in October. What I think is so cool about these photos is that they reveal the three dimensional "shape" of the flood river. Kind of an inverted trapezoid, that stretches from the northern highlands all the way to Bangkok. That is an enormous quantity of water.
The park, composed of flagstones and pastel exercise equipment, is built alongside the river. It reveals an interesting aspect of Thai society, namely its relationship with the concept of public spaces. Public parks are extremely rare, and have very defined uses. For example, should one have the rare good fortune of stumbling upon a grassy turf, it is most likely off-limits for actually playing on. So when I wanted to toss a hardball with the lovely lady, we usually struck out for a bulldozed dirt pad that will someday have a house built upon it.
Yet, while public spaces receive relatively little attention, nearly every private space is intended to be somewhat public. This goes beyond waving to your neighbors who are hanging out on their porches as you walk by. People's homes literally open up to the street (see slideshow). As the photo shows, there is a garage-type sliding door that opens to reveal the front room of the house. During the day, the residents do their work in the front room, open to the street. In a similar vein, most public business (restaurants, internets, law offices) are the front rooms of houses as well. So if you ask to use the bathroom at your hip coffee house, you will find yourself squatting next to the owner's toothbrush. Wow that sounds way grosser than I intended. But you get the point, yes?
This open style of residential living leads to a very lovely thing indeed. Thai-style gardening. Nearly every home in town is fronted with a lush variety of potted plants, most of them flowering. Oh so delightful, the loveliest flowers you ever have seen! At their best, the street-side gardens of Hadsiao can create oases of verdant tranquil greenery. (see slideshow, numerous pics)
Question, for those who are interested in commenting: What experiences with Public Spaces (especially public green spaces) have you had in foreign countries? Any particularly delightful examples? Or did this become one of those "I can't wait till I'm home" longings?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
