26 - 30 December 2007
A notion of reality

Before we leave Chiang Mai, we have some things to do. I, for example, finally have my long wished for massage. I go to the local prison, where they train female prisoners to become masseuses. Their working schedule unfortunately is out of tune with my timing; the women are just being brought back to their cells, and prices turn out to be high. Back in our own street I do manage to get what I want for a good price, and completely relaxed I return to our room.
Inspired by Peters cycle-tattoo I have my twenty years old breast tattoo covered up by a lovely tiny dragon.

During two cycle trips in and around Chiang Mai we visit over a dozen of the cities' most special temples. Very impressing, but after number ten Peter definitely gets temple-jagged.

Like everywhere in Thailand many of the beloved pet dogs are dressed up; one really makes the show, sitting proudly on top of a motorbike with a cowboy hat on his head.

December 27th, our last day here, I bear my final dental treatment: a new filling and a crown. Some of our no longer needed stuff we hand over to the sympathetic Inez and Rene from the Netherlands . They will take it home for us, and we are very grateful.

With a new pair of brakes for Peter, well deserved after 50,000 kilometres, we leave marvellous Chiang Mai Friday December 28th. By train, because our visa expire next week.
In Phitsanulok, 400 kilometres to the south, we visit the Wat Phra Si Rattana Mahathat Woramahawihan, despite Peters temple-tiredness. A temple with an impossible name, but according to insiders, housing Thailands most delicate Buddha statue. The statue is adorned with a flamelike halo around head and torso, which ends in dragon-snakeheads on both sides. Alright, this one was worth it, again.

And then, one day later we're finally back on the bikes. We fill our bottles at one of the very smart water-ATM's. You don't put in a card, but money, you don't get money, but fresh drinking water. A perfect solution for the thirsty cyclist. Some fantastic invention!
What look like hills on our map, turn out to be real mountains, and with a full-blowing headwind the first day becomes a real struggle. On the way we spot more birds than before: bee-eaters, rollers and an unknown starling-like bird with a white breast, black crest and long red beak. We pass villages, ponds, and weaver nests without the weavers. An adult man shoots at birds with his catapult, now we understand why there are so few of them left in this country.
There are some well-to-the-eye orchids, and ponds are fully covered with lotus flowers.
Small businesses recycle car tires into garbage bins and flower pots; one can buy hammocks in any color and fabric alongside the road. In the jungle we meet over a dozen kinds of butterfly, not edible to the Thai, so still alive. On the smooth tar we see several kinds of flattened snakes, road-kill.
Termite hills cover entire trees, until the trees finally die and nothing's left but a heap of ground with a dead tree in the middle. In the tributaries we see a lot of waterfalls, all leading to the big Keg River.
After 75 kilometres of climbing and headwind there's still no place to sleep. I get fed up with cycling, and so does Peter, but we have no choice but to go on. In order to arrive before dark we try to catch a ride, but everyone ignores us. So we cycle on. In the first big village, after 103 kilometres, every hotel is fully booked because of the Happy New Year festival in two days. It is dark now and cycling becomes too dangerous. With the permission of the owner we pitch our tent behind one of the restaurants.
A great start of the new stretch, on our way to Cambodia.

Ten hours of sleep. Our tent is and will always be our real home, wherever we are.
After yesterday's long day we take it easy now, to give our legs a bit of rest. The route is perfect: long descents out of the mountainous area, followed by flat terrain.
For only 15 eurocents each, we buy maize ears and take a break on a barren piece of land next to the road. An elderly couple is tilling the land: they pull out dry corn stems from the last harvest and plough the land. Everything is done by hand, lacking machines, ox and plough. From what we can see they don't own more than one acre of land, which is their only means of making a living. Day after day. An almost impossible task.
After a while the two come closer, out of curiosity, and watch how we western people eat our lunch. In unintelligible Thai the old woman starts talking to us; we don't understand a word of what she says and give her a smile. With hands and feet, English, Dutch and a bit of Thai we try to make contact. But nothing works; what remains is the international language of the smile.
The woman sqats next to us. For a root canal treatment it's too late, most of her darkred dentures have disappeared a long time ago.
Her clothes consist of a colourless skirt as old as she is, a blouse with zebra-motive and an old orange t-shirt used as a scarf against the sun.
Under his sunken belly the skinny man wears two pairs of fraying trousers.
On his chest, we can count his ribs effortlessly, he has a remarkably big tattoo; it's a yantra-tattoo, like many elder Thai men have, consisting of magical formulas in geometrical patterns with a small Buddha in the centre. Monks make these tattoos, and they have magical powers that ward of evil and hardship.

Although by now we have seen enough poverty to last a lifetime, we're yet again troubled by a feeling of injustice. These people have worked hard their whole lives, under difficult circumstances, in unbearable heat, in the heavy downpours of the yearly monsoon, and yet they're extremely poor.
And we, lamenting Dutchies with a fat wallet, cycle around the world without any real worries.
We complain when we have to stay somewhere for three weeks because of a dental treatment. This couple never even had a choice like that.
We nag about the bad roads in faraway countries, which we chose ourselves to see beautiful things. These people have probably never seen more than their own diminutive piece of land.
We grumble about the wind, which they daily bear around their thin, tanned bodies.
We are often unsatisfied with the meagre and strange food a country has to offer. They endure their fate with dignity, accept what 's available and what's not, and work all day for a meal of rice, beans and two kinds of vegetables.
We abreact at the lack of places to stay overnight, having to make long days in the saddle. They don't have a bicycle, walk two miles twice a day going to their land and back to a rickety hut.
We growl about a bad internet connection, or a power cut. They use candles or a small fire, and do not wail.
And yet: they grimace, even smile.
Seem to have a good time.
Are not unhappy.
Don't condole.
No whining.
No difficult discussions about their fate.
They don't beg.
There's only curiosity about these two strange creatures on a 'djakajan' (bicycle).

We feel uncomfortable. We do complain when things don't go our way. We still can grumble, we are still Dutch. At the same time we are happy people, and we realise it more than ever.
We would love to give these two old people some money, ten euro, a hundred, it doesn't matter. But we know it won't make them any happier, because we are, with our money, not happier than they are now.
We share the cooked corn cobbs, and together we devoure the sweet yellow delicacy. We laugh at each other and enjoy the simple meal.

We have given them something small, a couple of maize ears, and in return we receive something huge.
A notion of reality.