More Travels with Jim: Longboats and Dragons

We did not know it then, but it was the last family vacation for two sons, their dad, and me, the mom/wife. We have so many memories from that trip—heat prostration in Bangkok; night markets, tuk-tuks; cooking school in Chiang Mai, the Golden Triangle; daring to step on the bridge to Burma; sons creating a Bildungsroman in a cabaret, one singing onstage, one behind the bar concocting drinks, both playing Connect Four with Madame; elephant rides in the mountains and through the jungle; a snake show; showing off soccer moves for tribal kids who live in packing-box shacks with tin roofs; luxury hotels; the orchid farm; bartering for a teapot from the old woman who tried to sell her opium pipe, too; eating street food; dinner at Cabbages and Condoms, and shopping for shirts for Dad (but that is a tale for another time, filed under “Jim’s shirt story”).
There was the two-day period when we hired a guide and a driver in Chiang-Mai to take us to the Golden Triangle, the point where Thailand, Burma/Myanmar, and Laos bow to each other. The boys wanted a little adventure—as much adventure as you can have when your father is in a wheelchair and your mother’s sport is turning pages of a book. The guide set an itinerary that began with a longboat up the Maekok River to visit a mountain tribal village. The driver, whose most recent job was driving Danny Glover while he filmed, pulled the air-conditioned mini-van to the side of the road—no day with the stars today. Our sons carried Dad’s wheelchair down the precipitous hill—laughing, always ebullient—and then across the precarious bamboo bridge—long poles crossed with short poles, sheets of bamboo shades draped across the whole, as if that made the whole sturdier. The Thai boatman waited at the bottom of the hill, on the river, leaning on his pole outside his longboat, watching and wondering. With the wheelchair as ballast, we settled in, passionate to begin the phantasmagoric adventure. Though the water level was low, the ride was smooth. As we sailed in our canopied conveyance, we watched the grandmother farmers on the hills and the multi-generations of fishermen trawling in the water. We imagined ourselves as explorers. We saw another boat stuck on a sandbar, the travelers getting in the water to free themselves. It all seemed so exotic. Then BUMP! We hit the sandbar, too. The boys jumped out of the boat and told me to stay with Dad. That did it; I summarily entered the Maekok—sandals, ankle-length skirt, and all. Dad sat next to his wheelchair in the boat, wishing he could help, but laughing at Mom disobeying the kids. The Thai boatman leaned on his pole in his longboat watching the enigma of the graying American lady, skirt dragging from the river water, mud exuding from between her toes. We negotiated the boat into deeper water and hopped back in to continue the exploits. This was cool. We were in northern Thailand, had maneuvered down a steep hill and across a rickety bridge to a waiting long-boat, had rescued ourselves from a river mishap, and were on our way with two Thai guides to meet mountain tribes. This was way cool—until we looked beyond the newly-planted trees on the riverbank. Through the trees we could see what seemed to be a caravan of huge, air-conditioned motor coaches. NO! “What is that,” we asked the guide. “Oh, that’s the new highway. The busses are taking tourists up to visit the mountain tribes.” BUMP! Was the scene on the sandbar just a show for the unsavvy, too? No aphorisms came to mind, only a whispered epithet. Was I disappointing my cubs? No. They laughed; Mom is fallible.
Of the many adventures during that trip, one dear to us is the visit to the umbrella factory. When the guide suggested it, I could see a not-for-us-look on the boys’ faces. This was no one’s bailiwick, but we went anyway. When we entered the thatched-roofed factory, the guide handed my camera case to one of the exhibitors. Within minutes, it was hand-painted with golden elephants and palm trees. After watching the artists decorate the beautiful bamboo bumpershoots, the boys and I went to the gift shop to find more prizes to become the artists’ palettes. I bought a dark wood bowl for an employee planning a Hawaiian-themed wedding. A young woman painted orchids in several shades of purple outlined in gold on the bottom of the inside, adding the names of the bride and groom and their wedding date—so lovely. The boys bought wooden wine bottle holders, handing them over to become chef d’oeuvres for special friends. Dad, in his wheelchair, joined the group around the umbrella painters, awed at their skill. One of the artists who appreciated the attention added elephants and palm trees to Dad’s shirtsleeve.
Dad was feeling good modeling the artwork on his sleeve. But the chair … At home, he had two sporty wheelchairs, the low, sleek purple one specially made for the man they said never saw a basketball shot he did not like. The chair with which he traveled, however, was an old-fashioned sturdy model like you still see in the hospitals and airports. It was easier for us to push because it was taller and it was strong enough to withstand cobble-stoned streets and being strapped in small other-country taxi trunks. Dad really disliked that chair. It was more difficult for him to maneuver. It was uglier than a rhinoceros at the three point line. He called it his old man’s chair. Dad was usually the first one with a joke about his physical condition, but that chair made him cranky. Knowing this, one of our sons assumed the role of deus ex machina. He and his brother conferred with the artist who painted elephants on Dad’s shirtsleeve, pushed their father over to the station, and admonished him to sit still for a small decoration on the back of the chair. At the end of the exercise, that wheelchair had a huge, fierce, gold and red dragon with white fangs and white claws on the back. Signed “Nid. Chiang Mai Thailand 3.4.2002” by the artist, it was no standard issue navy blue old man chair anymore. Dad never complained about that wheelchair again.
Although we did not know it was to be the last family vacation for two sons, their dad, and me, the mom/wife, we made memories in Thailand as if this were an itinerary planned by Make-a-Wish.