I’ve had a good life. I can appreciate things when something good happens, especially after the bad.It’s rush hour in Bangkok and bicycling to the train station is not like sitting in a hovercraft. The safest thing is to stay in the flow of traffic, but as the road ascends, I realize to my horror that I’m on a one-way highway that spans the Chao Phraya River. There are traffic police ahead. They waving me to come and I hear them saying, “You sucker, this will cost you 1,000 baht.” I wave back, “Uh huh, going back.” The traffic is thick enough that they can’t even chase and arrest me.
The next wrong turn is onto a one-way street so I’m riding over the sidewalk rubble, dismounting and lifting the bike over each cross-street curb, cursing the thought of missing my train.
Somehow, I make it to the station and am relieved when I plop into my seat, facing a man who’s supposed to smile in recognition. Instead he looks puzzled and wants to see my ticket. “How can we have the same seat?” Then it’s clear that my train left a day ago.
There should be another train that night. The ticket guy shows me the last seat on his computer screen, but he does so while simultaneously yawning, stretching and picking his nose. I express my disgust and he gets snotty. “Full” he says, clicking away the last ticket. I trade in my pride for a ticket and buy one for the next day.
Just on a hunch, I go to another window and sure enough there’s a seat that night. We go back to the first window to get my money back. I raise my hands like, “Well ????” but he’s peeling lotus seeds.
It’s a new train. I sleep well. The cars are air-conditioned, sealed and kind of boring, but they’ve kept the old dining car intact, either for historical reasons or because the staff would have protested. In the morning, I head that way for Nescafe and the moment the last automatic door slides open, Thai life rushes in. Thai country music blasts and with each rock of the train, I’m so sure the dining car will erupt into a glorious Thai musical.
Staff have started on their whiskeys and greet each other with the warmth of friends who eat breakfast with each other every morning. Someone has his hand out the window, playing with the sensation of the passing air. When anyone moves their hands beautifully, I check to see if they’re signing something. I don’t know his choice of words, but the message is clear. Lifted by the aerodynamics of the warming mountain air his fingers float like feathers on a hawk, I know he’s expressing every golden drop of this sensational moment.
Golden moments continue in Chiang Mai. I am welcomed by the researchers whom I’ve come so far to see. I’m in awe at the signing software they’re developing and they seem flattered. At the university, the inclusive education department is more than cooperative. On the second day, I’m early for our appointment, but I hear them say, “He’s here” and within minutes everyone is mobilized; tripod in place, signed discussed and prepared. I leave with videos of hundreds of new signs, all done in a painless few hours.
Back in Laos, I’m in a sour mood. “Why can’t Laos seek help from Thailand? Look at how much they’ve done?” Someone explains clearly to me. ‘Martin, you don’t understand. We have to watch Lao people painted black and acting as comic slaves on Thai TV dramas. It’s not time yet.”
He’s right. It’s unfair to compare. Within an instant, I’m back in Laos. I thought I’d never forgot those golden chedis in a land where some people’s profession is to give good service, where some people are happy to share knowledge and a place with perfect cappuccinos on every corner. There are claw marks on the tarmac. “I don’t wanna go,” but it all fades upon impact. Lao charm can do that to me. People will ask, “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.” They’re saying, “Welcome back.”
