My friend Awesome Angie came to visit me on the road and treated me to a nice hotel for a few nights in Bangkok.
This glittering boutique guesthouse was sleek, shiny and chic — the kind of place that made me feel guilty about sullying the floors with my mud-crusted, duct-taped flip-flops.
The funniest thing about the hotel, though, was that they have a separate page on their website for “female travelers.”
I do love that they actually recognized the fact that female travelers exist, because many places don’t. But the features they choose to highlight are ridiculously stereotypical things like vanity mirrors.
The site points out that “the below will be of special interest to the female traveler, single, with partner or family.”
Essentials for the Female Traveler
Room Service
Storage Space
Bathrobe and Bathroom Slippers
Separate rain shower and handheld shower
Bathtub with handheld shower
Vanity counter with large wall mirror
Magnifying mirror
Hair dryer
Extra hangers in the wardrobe
Iron & ironing board
Extra hangers, yo! This is too good to be true.
Clearly, women be shoppin’! Women be bathin’! Women be keepin’ their clothes pressed and wrinkle free!
Personally, I would have been more interested in the speed of the hotel’s wireless network or their proximity to public transportation. Though I was pretty psyched about the bathrobe.
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.
As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.
That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.
She only knew a few English words. I speak high school preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.
There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.
After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.
GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?
ME: I no stay guesthouse.
GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.
And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.
Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.
Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.
GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?
ME: America. How long do you travel?
GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.
ME: My French is very sick.
And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.
ME: I would like to buy some socks today.
She nodded.
GIGI: D’accord.
When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.
The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.
I did my best to explain.
ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.
GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).
ME: I’m sorry.
GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.
Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.
“Non. Too sad,” said Random French Dude, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
I was in a ramshackle outdoor bar in Pai, Thailand, having drinks with some stray travelers. They asked about my weeklong experience volunteering with elephants.
“Were these animals sick? Injured?” Random French Dude asked.
“Yes, most of them have had difficult lives,” I said. “Some of them still have injuries from abuse. But they’re happy now. The park is a sanctuary.”
“Non. I do not like that kind of thing,” he said, scowling. “I like happy things only.”
“Oui,” his friend nodded, then lit the end of a Marlboro.
Random French Dude proceeded to tell me about his recent two-hour elephant trek, in which a metal seat was strapped to an animal’s back, carving out deep, raw divots in its hide. A guide led the creature by hammering a metal hook into its neck.
Oh, yes. That sounds sooo happy.
As a volunteer, I spent a week at Elephant Nature Park, located about an hour outside of Chiang Mai. Our group of 30-some volunteers was split into smaller clusters that rotated chores throughout the week.
Sometimes we chopped corn, which is a delicious elephant snack. Other times we scrubbed bathtubs full of produce, since the pesticides on watermelon rind and squash skin could hurt delicate elephant tummies.
Elephant kitchen. And you thought I ate a lot.
We shoveled elephant dung, we dug mud pits, we prepared squishy food for elephants with bad teeth, we even patched the potholed road that leads to the sanctuary. Twice a day we helped feed the gentle giants, and every afternoon we took them into the river for a bath.
Rub-a-dub.
Overall, it was a memorable and magical experience.
What impressed me most about Elephant Nature Park is that they never solicited donations for themselves. Instead, they taught visitors and volunteers about the issues plaguing Asian elephants, they encouraged us to tell others, and they asked us to get involved in whatever way possible. Their message wasn’t focused on the park — it was all about the animals.
Happy mudpit elephants.
The huge problem for elephants began when the Thai government banned logging in the 1990s, putting thousands of elephants out of work. Likewise, elephant mahouts (handlers) had few options. They could abandon their animals, sell them to trekking companies or panhandle with the elephants on street corners.
So an out-of-work elephant, begging for a tiny baggie of fruit, is not an uncommon sight on the streets of Chiang Mai and Bangkok. Though the practice is technically illegal, the police often turn a blind eye. Meanwhile, the elephants are stressed and agitated from the traffic, lights, congestion and noise of the cities. They rock back and forth, a sign of distress.
The elephants lucky enough to get work with a trekking company face grueling labor. They often don’t receive the proper food or veterinary care. When injured, they aren’t allowed enough time to heal. Their backs are blistered and wounded from metal chairs, their spines compromised by heavy loads, their skin wounded from beatings with metal hooks.
Weepy eye.
The elephants also go through a brutal taming process before they interact with humans. This involves squeezing a young elephant into a small cage and keeping the animal chained for weeks at a time, poking it with sharp objects and beating it with sticks. After enough abuse, the spirit is effectively broken. In the end, the elephant is dominated.
This elephant stepped on a landmine.
Compounding these issues is the fact that elephant numbers are dwindling. At the start of the 20th Century there were 100,000 elephants in Thailand. Now there are about 3,000.
As Random French Dude says, too sad.
As I say, screw that.
Real change can only be achieved by recognizing injustice and refusing to close your eyes. It means purposely looking at the sadness in the world and making a conscious effort to help.
The good thing is that Elephant Nature Park didn’t turn away. They are a haven for glorious creatures who have already lived difficult lives. Their goal is not only to take in wounded animals, but to eradicate the cycle of abuse and exploitation. Their guiding philosophy is kindness.
Roam if you want to. And if you’re a big freaking elephant.
Nom nom nom.
“Muffy, shall I make another pitcher of mimosas?”
Volunteering there was worthwhile not just because I helped smooth over ugliness. Rather, I witnessed the wild beauty of freedom — and that’s something extraordinary. Not sad.
Nobody puts baby (elephant) in a corner.
Interested in visiting or volunteering with Elephant Nature Park? Get more info over here. Visitors can make day trips or stay overnight for up to eight days. Volunteers can stay for many weeks. I paid nearly $400 to volunteer for one week, and that included accommodation and three delicious (mostly vegan!) buffet meals per day.
Kissy kissy.
I also got to kiss elephants every day, which is priceless.
