A Lucky Break Part III

I move to Thailand for work and travel a bit in my spare time

I got the job at the treatment center in Chiang Mai.

It had been more than a year since I’d been up there for the conference and those three magic days of sightseeing with Chao and dining out on glorious local food.

I still had his phone number but hadn’t been in touch since I sent the shoes (see link below for earlier story).

After some protracted negotiations with my soon-to-be employer at the treatment center we agreed on conditions — and it was all on.

A little flicker of delight rippled through me as I remembered Chao and his big white smile.

When I had my flight details I called him to ask if he could pick me up at the airport, and also find me somewhere to stay. It was the high season — i.e. loads of tourists were taking up all the hotel rooms — and I couldn’t find a decent hotel online.

He’d lived in Chiang Mai for more than thirty years and had lots of connections.

Chao’s English, while a whole lot more developed than most, was still pretty basic, and my Thai was pretty much limited to ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’, so I wasn’t sure whether he got the message about my arrival time.

I arrived, a little anxiously, lugging my two huge suitcases (the excess charges were crippling), plus one painting which I was very fond of.

But in the arrivals lounge my anxiety disappeared as soon as I saw him. I smiled and waved.

There was that big white smile again. It was comforting.

Something familiar in this strange land

His little tuktuk seemed to strain under the load, weighed down with all my luggage. I had come to live in Northern Thailand after all. I’d also taken the two bags to Adelaide where I’d intended to say long-term, but that job had come to a sticky end after a couple of months (here’s my earlier story).

As we made our way through the seething evening traffic, I was glad to be back.

This was my fourth time to the region that I felt such an affinity for; there was something about its gentle people who exuded a grace I hadn’t found find much elsewhere. Something to do with Buddhist sensibilities. Chao was a Buddhist too and seemed to exude serenity.

The familiar scents of the city: the musty drains, the wafts of garlic cooking, welcomed me back.

I was exhausted after the long flights from downunder and grateful to find decent sheets on my bed in the small, Thai hotel he had found for me.

All I wanted to do was fall in to bed, but forced myself to shower and wash off the grime I’d collected on my 20 hours of travelling.

I fell asleep immediately.

The next day Chao took me to my apartment that belonged to a friend of his. The rent was low and a tiny proportion of what I’d be earning at the rehab.

It was a spacious one-bedroom studio which had a grand view out over Chiang Mai from the ninth floor.

The floor was white marble and felt smooth and cool under my bare feet.

Thai people always took their shoes off at the door and I had adopted the custom.

I accepted the landlady’s conditions and gave her a month’s deposit, in cash, signing the agreement on the spot.

Chao had saved me hours of effort and made it easy for me to move into my own place. I felt immediately at home.

The apartment had nearly everything I needed and Chao took me to a store to buy all the things that were missing — an electric jug, toaster etc.

With all the windows open a breeze kept the place cool and there was aircon for those really hot days, the landlady explained.

She was old — in her mid-seventies but looked 20 years younger and wore elegant, western clothes. She had lived in New York City for 20 years and ran a Thai restaurant there, so her English was pretty good. I was chuffed and very grateful.

I gave Chao a big tip at the end of the day.

Each day he drove me to work at the rehab and picked me up at the end of the day and drove me back to the apartment.

My colleagues told me I was paying way too much for the service, but I didn’t mind. It was still a pittance and he was good company. It would’ve been a lonely time without him.

This gentle giant of a man was doing so much more than just driving. On the trip home most days we’d stop at a market and buy take-out dinner and he would sit with me at my tiny dining table, or we would go to a restaurant and he would order.

He had a favorite restaurant that was owned by a man who was a leader in the Red Shirt movement.

Chao explained that most of the diners were also members of the Red Shirts, the Northern Thailand movement of lefties intent on government reform and help for poor people.

One night at dinner at this Red Shirt restaurant, Chao made as if to hold my hand across the table.

I was a little shocked and gently slapped his hand away, saying: ‘You’re a married man! This is not good.’

He looked down sheepishly and I realized he had lost face, but didn’t know what else to say.

As he dropped me at my apartment Chao said with great sincerity: “I sorry I hold your hand. I truly sorry.’

I accepted his apology and it seemed as if a healthy boundary was now in place. Don’t get me wrong, I’d loved to have held hands — and more — with this dear man, but I knew it would be a disaster waiting to happen.

Western women who get involved with Thai men — especially married ones — often end up in a ditch and luckily I still had a few morals . . .

Some weekends Chao would take me a little further afield in his little tuktuk and I’d drink in the sights. One day he wanted to get some electrical device fixed in a neighboring town, and the trip was a little long. The vibrations of the tuktuk are quite difficult to tolerate after a while and though the trip gave my kidneys a good workout, I was uncomfortable and let him know. He had sensed this already.

I asked if he had access to a car. Yes, he said, a family member would let us use their car for a price. So I looked forward to our weekend forays into the Northern Thailand hinterland — a place of great beauty with its dense rainforest, roaring rivers and intricately designed rice fields.

I was also writing a book in my downtime and sometimes had to say no to Chao’s suggestions for trips out of town. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted the baht or to spend time with me.

We ate some spectacular food at some very small restaurants where I was inevitably the only westerner (farang, a somewhat pejorative word).

I’d tell my English-speaking colleagues what I’d been up to over the weekends and they agreed that I was having a truly Thai experience. They preferred western food and stuck to their ex-pat communities.

I was becoming a Red Shirt sympathizer.

Here is this series on Medium.

Find me at www.solutionsauckland.com

Find my e-book novel at: