24 - 25 November 2007

Butterflies, refugees, joyful entertainment and friendly strangers

Cycling out of Mae Ramat we pass a long parade of singing school children, accompanied by drums and cymbals. Normally the children stand to attention on the school yard at eight A.M., singing the national hymn. But, today is Loh Krathong, the biggest annual festival of Thailand.
The road from Mae Ramat to the north snakes alongside the Moei River. All day we look out over the rolling green mountains of Myanmar, which is situated right across the bordering river. The jungle around us is fascinating: dozens of shades of green, wild growing figs strangling teak trees, butterflies in all colours fluttering around us all day, whispering streams suddenly disappearing into clattering waterfalls, then all of a sudden a forest of wooden huts at the left side of the road.

The leaf roofs huts spread for kilometres on end and are part of Birmese refugee camps that have been established here since 1984. The ethnic minorities of eastern Myanmar suffer especially from the military junta, and until this day they, and the political opponents of the dictators, are under the threat of violence and imprisonment. Over 150,000 people have been living in these temporary villages for over twenty years now.
The Thai government supports them by building schools and clinics, and under certain conditions the refugees are allowed to work. Getting registered legally is difficult and expensive, so building a hopeful future is nearly impossible.
The refugees cheerfully shout at us, and even more cheerful we greet the people we don't really envy.

I stay further behind than I usually do. During a break Peter asks me how I'm doing. I stealthily look at him, open my front pannier and suddenly there's a green snake around my arm. Aahhh. No panic: the snake is dead. I also show him four splendid butterflies, one of them with long tails, which I keep in my address book. I picked all of the animals up from the road. Being a collector I am very busy and have almost no time to cycle.
Tonight I will skin the snake, dry the skin and stick it into the diairy. The butterflies await the same destination, and it's obvious why our diairies, full of animal parts, leaflets, tickets and pictures, exceed the weight of one kilo by far. And who has to carry them? Yes... Peter.
Halfway the afternoon we reach Tha Song Yang, where an old man rents out a teakwood house for only 300 baht, though unfortunately there are no beds. We cycle further and find a resort of wooden bungalows which looks way too expensive for our budget. But, for the same 300 baht we each have our own home, with a kingsize bed, hot shower, free coffee and tea and a terrace. And all situated in the jungle, hundreds of flowers and joyfully fluttering butterflies that all evade me for one reason or the other.

In the evening we cycle back to the village, where people celebrate the Loh Krathong festival. At the local party grounds thousands of people gather around food stalls for the most delicious bites of fish, fruit and meat and of course the cold-beer stalls. At the fancy fair girls and boys only partially sober are testing the remnants of their coordination skills. The stall keepers have a good evening.

And then the parade starts. This is what Loh Krathong is all about in Thailand: the pageant for women. Who will be the most beautiful of the village, the city, the country this year?
Richly adorned carts and chariots pass by in a kilometres long parade on their way to the party. One by one they turn onto the trampled grass. Most chariots are shaped like a lotus flower, with the local beauties sitting in the centre. The faces of ladies are as white as possible: the highest ideal. Some of them are very prepossessing, while others surely will not be this years winners.
Around the carts men and women walk, drum and dance, most of them more than a bit tipsy.

Tha Song Yang is no more than a big village, we are the only foreigners and draw a lot of attention. Before Peter realises what happens, a couple of dancing and drunk women seducingly drag him to unknown places. As he himself has had a couple of drinks too, he needs all of his senses not to fall into strange hands.
Following the chariots some local tribes perform a magical stick and pole dance. We can hardly follow the fast movements with our eyes. At the big stage people release hugh, metres high lanterns that fly into the sky, cheered on by the crowd.
We cannot wait for the results of the pageant. It's after twelve when we reach our beds, three hours after our usual bedtime.
What nice dreams will we enjoy this night.

The next day, we cycle away an hour later than we normally do, right back into the jungle. When we see men and boys carrying catapults gazing at the trees, we finally understand where all the birds of Thailand have gone. Every single one is hunted down; probably more because of tradition than necessity, since there surely is no hunger here.

At Mae Sarit we visit a hill top temple. Here, in Thailand, we do something we never did before: we leave the bicycles behind without guard and don't worry at all.
The temple contains seven Buddha statues, one for every day of the week. Every Buddha sits in a different position.

Still somewhat relieved, you never know, we find the bicycles exactly the way we left them, and carry on.
Six dead snakes and four hundred living butterflies later we arrive in Ban Tha Song Yang, where we try in vain to find a place for the night. Kum, a young soldier, takes us to his house. We follow him on his motorbike on an extremely steep road that even changes into a dirt track. The climb is steeper than the Keutenberg, a deadly hill in the southern part of our own country. And fortunately we may do it with our heavy panniers...
We end up in a real traditional teakwood house, built on poles to beat the yearly monsoon. Inside the house is completely empty, like it has been for ages, except for a small table that proudly bears a 70 centimetres colour television. Modern times have taken a toll on old customs.
Kum cooks a simple but delicious meal, while the guests, according to tradition, sit on the wooden in-house balcony. Siriam and Subdu return from school and have the fright of their lives seeing three strangers; when they finally are convinced that we won't eat them they relax.

Kum turns ot to be the only owner of a television set in the area, and in the evening half of the village drops in to look at the magical apparatus, in what turns out to be our bedroom...
Being cyclists we love to go to bed early. Not because we are dull persons, we guess, but simply from exhaustion.
Staying with local people, the highest aim for many travellers, doesn't give you any choice but to adapt to the rhythm of your hosts. And that's what we do, with painful, burning eyes, that is. Two long and exhausting hours later the last neighbour leaves and the lights and sounds die.
Finally quiet, finally we can close our eyes.
Finally...