There are 762 curves on the road between Chiang Mai and Pai.
I know this because seemingly everything in Pai proclaims that fact. Journals, T-shirts, postcards and other miscellaneous items boast squiggles and the number “762.”
- More curves than Marilyn Monroe.
I had taken this road, and these souvenirs were pushed upon me as a badge of honor. Like, “I survived the bus. Yay.”
In fact, many souvenirs were foisted upon me in Pai, because the Thai town is one big gift shop. Everything is a bad pun or a slogan with signs that say “Pai love you” and “Pai feel good.” There are businesses called Ins-PAI-ration and Pai in the Sky. Endless stalls of T-shirts say, “Pai is colorful.” “Pai is great.” “No war in Pai.”
- “Pai feel good.” Get it?
- The Aloha state?
- Robot mail cat loves Pai.
I’ve never seen a town so in love with itself.
I tried to love Pai too. It was everything I should have wanted in a town. Artists. Musicians. Adorable graffiti. Lush landscape. Fire pits. All-night parties. Pink banks. Big breakfasts. Chill vibe.
- Pai is love.
- Yes, I am extremely Ting Tong.
- Eric Clapton crossing.
- In my ideal world, all financial institutions are pink.
- I wanna poo!
- Cute.
- Note the “hippies smell” sticker.
But I wasn’t having any of it.
For one thing, many things in Pai have crossed the line into too easy-going. Example: I found a yoga studio online, checked their class schedule and showed up only to find a locked door and dark windows. A dude in a nearby hut offered an explanation. “Yeah, so the yoga lady went south, right? And nobody knows when she’ll be back. Maybe … wait. What year is it?”
Trekking, tours and other activity were fairly nonexistent this time of year. I met a guy who had been in Pai for a month, and I asked him what he did every day. He said, “To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I don’t even remember waking up today.”
My first guesthouse had worms in the mattress. The second one acted as if guests were an inconvenience.
The hippies wore “hippies smell” T-shirts in an attempt to be ironic hippies, which is probably the worst kind of hippie of all. The hair salon didn’t just make dreadlocks, they fixed them. Some coffeeshops only opened at night. I barely even saw any Thai people, which is bizarre when you’re still in Thailand.
- For those of you with janky dreads.
- Pluck the armpit? Ow.
The whole place was like that weird fifth pocket on your jeans. You know that somebody somewhere has a use for it, but you can’t possibly figure out why.
I hate to be one of those pretentious travelers who says, “That place was great 30 years ago, before tourists ruined it.” But I think Pai was probably pretty great 30 years ago. And then tourists ruined it.
I tried so hard to embrace the experience, but the place rang false and hollow. I felt like it was all overpriced patchwork pants and cheap mojitos. Commercialism and laziness. Surface and no substance.
Or, to put it in Pai terms: All gorgeous glass bongs and shitty weed.
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