People remark how cheap clothes are in Thailand, where you can pay a few dollars/euros/francs for a "genuine" article which everyone knows is fake and which will likely fall apart within a few weeks or days if you're unlucky. And no surprise: the quality is often terrible, but at the same time, with some of the "better" fakes, it's astounding to what level of detail they copy their original. And if you happen to purchase boxer shorts, some kinds of t-shirts or a number of other articles, it's possible they originated in the back room of my friend's sister's place. Their business is making clothes which are distributed in Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai and elsewhere. Huge bolts of cloth go in, the three or four ladies sitting essentially in the garage whip them into boxer shorts, sewing on elastic claiming to be 'Calvin Klein' or 'Joe Boxer' or whatever. Another shed holds the finished product swathed in plastic bags and sorted in no fashion whatsoever. With much enthusiasm they managed to ferret out a few things for me to try: the baggy trousers typical of the region, popular with rural folk and tourists and otherwise no one under the age of forty; sport pants in neon green and red; a sarong; and other sundry items. We soon agreed on the necessity of 'big' opposed to 'small' sizes (I am a veritable giant here, taller than almost all of the men), and my friend's sister gave me several of the articles as a gift.
We'd brought the grandpa with, and when he got tired of the shade outside - where it's still almost unbearably hot - he went in to sleep and we went to lunch. Through innumerable back roads and avoiding potholes large enough to swallow a motorcycle without chewing, we somehow made it to The Reservoir. Steering carefully past the motorcycles parked on the embankment overlooking the lake, and so covered in foliage they were barely recognizable as motorcycles as such, we steered in to the parking lot of what appeared to be a restaurant. We ordered, still standing in the entry, and were given a reed mat, a basket of glasses, a bucket of ice and a bottle of coke, and we set off. On the shore of the lake were a series of little reed huts, each with a thatched roof and a reed floor balanced on stilts in the water. Reachable by a little gangplank, we made our way in, balancing our way across a floor with many of the reeds missing, to find a little table in the back. We spread out the reed mat, placed the low table in the middle, and distributed the glasses. Apparently our food would be delivered, and we passed the time by enjoying the scenery, and wondering if the little hut next to ours - reachable by wading a short distance through the water to a small sandbar, and the hut was floating on metal barrels - would sink completely under the weight of the 20 or so people who filled it to bursting. And because life isn't fair, they got their food before we did; we, however, got to enjoy the show. All of the sudden a motorcycle comes tearing across the field separating the huts from the restaurant, and upon closer inspection we see it is the waiter on the bike, expertly balancing a tray on one hand and steering with the other. He barely paused as well before shooting through the water onto the sandbar, where he gallantly dismounted, bounded up the gangplank and handed over their food. Ingenious.
On our way back, on one of these little dirt roads seeming to lead nowhere but actually leading back to "civilization", there was a temple. Granted, I've probably been to 20 or so so far, and in comparison, this one was downright boring. Except for the cast concrete naga staircase, I wouldn't even have known it was a temple, for it missed the opulence of its fellows. As soon as we entered, we were assaulted by a loud clacking sound, as if there were an air hocky tournament being held in the back, and indeed I thought the half-finished temple was being used as an activity center or something. Alas, it was nothing of the sort, but rather a Buddha factory. Here is where clay was pressed into little Buddha figurines, and the loud clacking noise was the die being pressed onto the base piece; the whole thing functioned somewhat like a drill press. A plug of clay is placed on the form, the person pulls the lever down sharply two or three times to press the clay into the die, the extra clay bits are brushed aside and by means of a little rotating lever, the clay piece is lifted up so it may be removed from the mold. Several young guys were busy at work, so quickly I wondered if they didn't accidentally Buddhize their fingers by mistake.
They made space and we gave it a try. I asked J., the niece, why we were doing this, if it was just for fun or for a specific purpose. I think she misunderstood me; she told me later it was their belief and not just for fun why they were doing this, and I explained I understood why they were making the Buddhas, but not why _we_ were making the Buddhas, if they have specific significance if one does it oneself, or something like that. She eventually explained that it was only because we knew the people making the figurines that we were able to do this, and it was therefore a special privilege to be able to do this.
Anyways, when I thought we were leaving, we were instead brought across the grounds to what looked like the monk's house, and we made ourselves (relatively) comfortable on the floor. Eventually the monk arrived and a few prayers were said. Now, this is not by far the first ceremony I had witnessed or taken part of since I had been here; there was the initial festival blessing, a blessing at Doi Suthep, the donation ceremony towards the building of a toilet at one of the temples, another blessing ceremony, and a commemoration of the death of my friend's son. This was, however, one of the first where the monk actually spoke to me. At the commemoration ceremony I was given a Thai name. This time, the monk asked me a few questions about myself - my name, my age, where I am from, where I lived in the US, etc - and then introduced the old guy seated next to him. "I call him my father," he said, "he's 92 years old and he has a sixth sense."
What followed is a bit difficult to describe, as it was also a bit difficult to understand. I think the grandfather was some kind of a fortune teller, or professed to do so, because he said I was in danger from something but somehow would be protected. It wasn't very clear. I had to correct their assumption that I was Christian; while I am respectful of all beliefs, I profess none of my own. He wanted to know if I meditate, and explained that the Buddha figures were one step towards doing Good Things which would bring one closer to heaven. And he told me that they had been talking about nuclear war, that they are very afraid it will come, and they feel their religion will protect them. For my part, I am still awaiting a better translation, but it boiled down to the monk giving me two little Buddha figures, explaining how to meditate, and promising that they would protect me. Lastly, the old guy examined my ring - a recent gift from my friend's father which I cherish greatly - and claimed it had been mine in a past life.
With no more comprehension than you, dear reader, we left the monk and made our way back to go to Chiang Mai for the evening. J. took us out to an amazing sushi restaurant and we collected her friends Bel and Hua for our "night on the town". The bar was open-air, full, and quite big, spilling somewhat into the street and blasting Thai rock music. The girls ordered almost 4 liters of what I found to be an overly sweet and strangely flavored neon green "cocktail", so I instead opted for a beer while they drank their concoction out of a shot glass which barely held a single piece of ice, and the boys opted for rum and soda. Being at this bar, with this crowd of kids was a strangely familiar experience, even though I had never been to this bar before nor did I know any of them: some things, like bars, are apparently similar in a lot of different places. Vendors would pass by hawking everything imaginable: jasmine wreaths, roses, snack food, more roses, more wreaths, begging for donations for the blind harmonica player, more roses, fried crickets (yes, and grasshoppers too), more roses.... the one bit that I had seen nowhere else before, besides the insects, were the elephants we looked over to find standing on the sidewalk. Where does the elephant go when it's not "working"?
Anyways, it was a good end to a good night, and I had an opportunity to speak to her friends a bit about what kinds of things they do, what they study, their plans and hobbies and such. One of them had spent a year in California, and all of them spoke at least decent English, so I enjoyed the break from my monosyllabic silence (I can communicate with my Thai family just fine, only it isn't a conversation and our mutual vocabulary is mostly restricted to kitchen objects, eating, sleeping, and temples).
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