เชียงใหม่, Chiang Mai

Founded 1296, meaning New City, capital of Lanna Kingdom and largest city in Northern Thailand, Chiang Mai is surrounded by a moat, which remains and, unfortunately for us, afraid less of the water than what is in the water, a major player in Songkran. The four gates into the moated old city are still visibly present: Tha Phai, East, most famous, site of Songkran's mass waterfight New Year party; Chang Phuak, North, opposite which we were staying; Suan Dok, West; Chiang Mai and Saen Pung, South.

. . . the tussle of taxi wrangling Thai-style, met by a ladyboy with excessive metal fingernail extensions touting for employing taxi-company, to whom we were sympathetic but whose business proposition we ignored, thinking that this is not the way it works, when in fact it does. The touts take the cash, draw up the receipt, which acts as a ticket and is presented to the driver. We accepted a much less excessive offer.

I have not covered yet

our most embarrassing mistake

Domestic flights have security checks, less comprehensive than international flights. Entering Thailand we bought two bottles of Sapphire Gin duty-free, not cheaply, not exorbitantly priced. I had them in my cabin baggage for the flight between Bangkok and Chiang Mai. Why? In my checked-in soft-case they might have leaked (we had in Bangkok, not enough to justify the purchase and what happened next, but a few) or broken. And would have added an unwanted almost-kilo. Got through passport control. Ate some odd food on a stick in a far from attractive waiting lounge. Proceeded to gate.

Stopped by bag scan. With naivety and still in the dark, asked what was in my carry-on backpack, I extracted the bottles.

Oh, said the staff the equivalent of, and called for English-speaking support. Something about liquids over 100mls stirred in my peripheral consciousness, but surely that doesn't apply to legitimately purchased duty-free, central consciousness countered. And so I said,

... but they [the bottles] are still in the official Duty-Free Bag!

I was sure the called-for support would sort it all out. There had been some mistake. The staff were simply not used to dealing with international travellers with access to the Duty-Free.

Eventually it was explained to me. I could take them back and put the bottles in my checked-in bag. Had they not heard? We had already checked in and been relieved of our bags. We had got through passport control and eaten some unappetising sticks in a less than attractive waiting lounge. Only just now had we learned that we should retrace our steps. It was too late.

Events as in shock slowed to slow motion. The official Duty-Free Bag was removed and deposited in a common rubbish bin. Only then did the gravity of things hit me: should we have asked for a final G&T? without T? a G? a slug of? Could they not save the Sapphire Gin for themselves and at least enjoy it? . . . and so our progress to the Gate was in a state of numbness, sober numbness.

Above, you can see the Khao Soi, noodles, excellent, at a place called Charmm, where I ought to have photographed the Mojitos. Muddled with excessive mint, generously served, and compensation for the lost gin, they became a thing but were after the first night never the same.

Good morning:

The air was thick. We had known that the annual crop burn-offs were occurring and that for some years conditions had changed, the air had become heavy with particulates. It didn't smell. The prevailing smell was all ganja. It was damp and thick, that's all. Strange for air to be poisoning.

J. had some virus. Not fun. Not helped by bad air. It meant more sleep for her, no fun, and big coffees in the morning for me, and the use of fast WiFi, faster and more common here than anywhere else we have been.

Sao Inthakin, shrine of ᩍᨶ᩠ᨴᩣ, entrance for men only, at Wat Chedi Luang Varavihara

ᩍᨶ᩠ᨴᩣ*

cellphone snaps:

Good morning!

Giving meaning to today's peregrination, arrival at our considered destination,

The Museum of Broken Relationships*

where I was happy to announce we were breaking up and so worthy of museumification; but as such things unroll, most of the exhibits were less than the sum of the concept, which is great, one museum in Zagreb as well, most presenting with a literalness that fell short of the necessary poetry the objects marking the ends of erotic liaisons: so, sort of de-transition objects or an-erotic fetishes. As every relationship is like every other, whether gay or straight or mixed, it reminded me of the presumption to exceptionalism implied in that Eleanor Roosevelt quote:

You wouldn't worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.

Most of the exhibits were. There were exceptions to the presumption of exceptionalism.

On the way back through the preparations for waterpistol overexcitement that is Songkran we popped in to the local bookshop where J. found a book we really ought to have purchased right there where we did.

Good morning!

We went on up the road:

And came to another place:

And were of a mind to tuktuk tuk:

KALM*

Good morning!

. . . first day of Songkran. Today's the day we climbed the hill, fended off wild dogs who didn't make their appointment, heard a cricket that sounded exactly like a chainsaw and visited a temple. Local university entrants climb the hill, taking the monks' path as a rite of passage, ascending past the temple we reached to the higher one, 3,000 or so of them every year; but first, a dirty Thai coffee, made with condensed milk, lishous, smashed avo and J. was lucky enough to get a green-edged egg which she didn't eat.

snaps:

Home again by taxi-truck, red, with bench-seats down the sides on the back, covered, air-conditioned by the open windows . . . through which as we neared the moat we were water-pistoled . . . J. dodged I ducked and caught water in my lughole, water I am not afraid of, I am, considering we were green-water moat-side, of what's in it . . . I need not have obsessed about that. I did however have my medical date to see-saw with J.'s, in Chiang Mai. The fever had not broken, or not completely let go. Soon a bettering would come. . .

Good morning: sunrise

Our flight out of Chiang Mai was booked for 2pm, we calculated on arriving at midday and, enquiring of the concierge the night before about our leaving time, when? He told us we would have to leave by 8am.

Why? The streets around the entirety of the moated old town would be entirely closed off, for parades and waterpistol, watercannon, infectious river-water mayhem to celebrate Songkran. Then, could we walk and waddle our overladen way away from the waterbattlezone, and catch a cab? a tuktuk?

You would have to walk almost as far as the airport. 4 kilometres. This did not appeal. The prospect of 6 hours airport-bound had at least more appeal than . . . potentially missing our flight.

We rose early, caught the cab and were safely away from the Mountain View Guesthouse, the mountain we saw the particulate-vagued sun fade behind, by 8am. The roads as yet clear.

Got to the airport. Went on the search for a café to sit out the hours, where we might read or something.

One open at Thai New Year proved difficult to find, but we did. Arrived there. Were told not open. The power was out.

When on? Were given the predictable shrug. Waited. In the heat. Dust. Breathing particulates. . . shortly after, the doors opened. Still, no machine. No internet. We waited.

We drank the coffee, breathed the air. We sat in the cool surroundings on a leather sofa. And I believe we ate a yummy bacon sandwich.