The more time I spent in Chiang Mai, the more I heard the siren call. Like a whisper rustling through the grass, it started. Then it grew steady as a stream. Finally, it was a torrid wave that I couldn’t escape. My newfound friends in Chiang Mai had been to Pai and couldn’t stop gushing about it. They would always mention Pai with a faraway look in their eyes, like pining over a new love affair that was just around the bend. I even heard it one time while enjoying lunch. A few girls sat at the table next to me and began trading backpacker traveling stories, including their experiences in Pai. “You have to go there. You have to stay here. You have to do this and do that.” So needless to say, even though Pai was on my list, I starred it as a must-see.
I planned my trip to Pai to coincide with my last days in Thailand before I flew to Indonesia on November 15th. I hopped into a mini-bus from my guesthouse in the morning and started the 3 hour journey up the mountains to the small village whose reputation had preceded itself and which now I felt had a lot to live up to. After about 762 turns in the road (at least that seems to be the current Internet consensus – I have no fast fact to back that up), our mini-bus rolled into town and I then proceeded to hoof it to just across the river outside of town and the lovely Pai Chan bungalows. For about $14 I received my own bungalow, complete with a bed (mosquito net included), hot water (a misnomer – the hot in that phrase lasted two minutes – I counted), a pool, and a tremendous view of the surrounding mountains. I could get used to this. Except for one agonizing thing. I had come down with a nasty cold/flu my last few days in Chiang Mai before my trip to Pai. Now it felt like the sickness was definitely winning the battle. My next few days spent in Pai would be amazing, tempered only by the fact that I was sick as a dog the whole time.
The following day I hiked the five minutes back across the river and into town, up to a motorbike rental shop right next to the tiny bus station. I sat down and asked to rent a bike. This was my primary reason for coming here. I had never in my life driven a motorbike and Pai would be the perfect place to learn. Here I had the freedom of the country roads, mostly empty, in which I could get to know my bike without any stress. The lady at the motorbike rental shop looked across at me and said, “Sure. What type of bike would you like? Do you have your driver’s license? Have you ridden a motorbike before?”. The last was an offhand comment. I didn’t pick up on the hidden meaning. Replying back happily, I said “No, actually, I haven’t ridden a motorbike. Here is my driver’s license.” Big mistake, apparently. “I’m sorry, but I can’t rent you a motorbike. It is high season and the police won’t let us rent to new drivers because of all the accidents.” I sat there, stunned to silence. I made some pretense, jockeyed to pretend I had already ridden a motorbike. Too late. The truth was out.
Screw this, I thought. So I went two places down to another motorbike place, sat down, and with no questions asked 10 minutes later I had the keys to my freedom. Off I went on my new ride, perhaps a little shakily at first, but gaining confidence with each kilometer. I stopped to fill up the tank of gas ($3), then glanced at my map for my next destination. I spent three wonderful days exploring the countryside around Pai, stumbling into hot springs, Chinese villages, waterfalls, lookout points, canyons, and amazing coffee shops overlooking miles of farmland with mountains as the backdrop. I now understood that look in my friends’ eyes whenever they mentioned Pai. If it wasn’t for my uninvited guest, Mr. Sicky (not to be confused with Mr. Happy or any of those other lovely characters), this would have been one of my favorite and oft-talked-about excursions. Instead I settled for a great trip with my new companion Mr. Sicky.
The one thing I didn’t anticipate and I think was compounded by Mr. Sicky, was the fact that at this altitude things tend to cool down at night. More so than I realized. My friends had warned me. “It gets cold! I needed a long sleeve shirt!”. OK, I thought. No problem. I brought along a long sleeve shirt. Mr. Sicky, however, was like a bear on my back. A polar bear with icicles in his fur. My nights were not fun, filled with shivering and shaking and not much sleep. Oh my friend Mr. Sicky, how I love your companionship.
The food was great. The one hour massages for $8 were great. Having the freedom to explore the surrounding roads and countryside was exactly what I needed after being dependent on others for transportation all this time. The bungalow was beautiful. The cold was an uninvited guest. Mr. Sicky will also never be invited back again. It took two separate trips to pharmacies – one in Chiang Mai, and one in Pai, yet I still couldn’t kick this nasty bug. It wasn’t until I was in Indonesia for a few days that I finally was able to get over my cold.
Still, even with all that, Pai lived up to the hype. Its reputation is well deserved.
[…] seven action packed weeks in Thailand, I was off to the airport for my flight to Indonesia, Mr. Sicky in tow. I was set to meet my old friend Suwandi in Medan. Suwandi and I had worked together in Iowa […]