I had resigned myself to a night of reflection in front of the soft, warm, pulsating, glow of a computer monitor, quenching my thirst with bottled milk tea from the twenty-four hours convenience store.
It was my third night in Chiang Mai, the northern city of Thailand, but my first night within the old city compound, surrounded by modern civilisation and it's various amenities like running water and electricity. I had just returned midday from three days of trekking through the jungles around Mae Taeng district, and was contend to laze the night away.
Chiang Mai, though, the devious old lady, had other plans for me.
Walking back to my dormitory, surrounded by thoughts of how to word my experiences of my journey so far, I barely took notice of a group of people congregating on the steps of a barber shop, which neighbours a store that sells hippie-ish clothing for people four sizes smaller than me. What caught my attention though, was the sweet simple melodies of Radiohead, and the lyrics that have enchanted me since I heard the cover by Jamie Cullum.
"...don't leave me high...don't leave me dry..."
Stopped in my tracks, I stood there to discern where the music was coming from. I had to strain my eyes across the dimly lit street, and could make out the outline of probably a group of ten people just chilling out. Some were playing the guitar and ukulele, with some singing along, while others were just drinking beer and talking.
My halt caught the awareness of one of the participant in this little soiree, a German guy, who gestured at me with a beer bottle in his hand, to join them.
The hunger for music, unsatiated since I was in Bangkok, repressed by the beauty and melancholy of Ayutthaya, and forgotten as I slept with the sound of crickets in Mae Taeng forest, quickly resurfaced and I couldn't resist the opportunity to give my vocal chords a workout, accompanied by the sounds of a guitar.
It was there I was introduced to an eclectic group of people, united by their love for music, beer, fashion, and the night air of Chiang Mai. There was Man, the unofficial leader of the pack; Si, the unassuming yet stylish owner of the barber shop bearing his likeness as its logo; the twins, Tam and Ton, both equally adept at the guitar and the ukulele; Daf, the owner of a funky pink Vespa which I scratched (more on that later); and the kids, Ice, Champ & Po.
I learned too that the German man who invited me over was called Pascal, a long-term tourist in Thailand (Nine months and counting).
And then there was Sonia, a trained architect from Madrid, who is searching for her different path in life after two years in the corporate sector in Shanghai, China. Between swigs and puffs, she shared her dream of being a designer in Pai, marrying the exquisite skills of local handicraft makers, in particular, people who work with leather materials, with the contemporary beatnik design of today's youth, and marketing them in her Spanish home market. She spoke of the beauty of Spain, and the contradictions of the glass and concrete city of Shanghai. She spoke of being broke, and of friends whom have reached out to help her.
I never got her last name, and she left before the night ended, but it was a conversation that was worthy of remembrance.
Our engaging little conversation was interrupted only by an unfortunate incident involving a lady falling off from her scooter a few feet away from where we were seated. She must have lost control of her vehicle due to the slippery road, wet from the rain and the continuing drizzle. People rushed to her aid (including us). She was more in shock than anything else, but just in case, the emergency services were alerted and she was sent to the nearest hospital in an ambulance.
The night continued with more beer and music - I got to contribute not just by belting Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's Somewhere Over The Rainbow, but also by buying a few bottles of Singha beer. A form of entrance fee, perhaps, an initiation of sorts, to join this group.
(A note to those who has desires to drink with the locals in Chiang Mai, but they tend to avoid Chang beer, as it has the reputation of being less forgiving the next day, leaving those who had consumed one too many with a punishing hangover. I learned this after realising the bottles of Chang beer I had bought had remained untouched, and I surreptitiously exchanged the Chang beer with the preferred Singha beer at the opposite convenience store.)
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and so must this fortuitous night in Chang Mai. With my cognitive abilities peripherally and temporarily blunted by alcohol, I mistook two strangers for friends that I had met in the earlier parts of my journey, and I went out to greet them, jumping unto a cement flower pot, which contained soil, but no flora.
The cement pot must have disagreed with me though, since it decided at that very moment to give way to my heft, sending my ass and my pride to the ground, bruising both. A part of the cement pot hit the aforementioned Vespa, and left a deep scratch on the side of its bodywork.
I was deeply apologetic for causing the mini incident, but my new friends were sufficiently sympathetic, and laughed about it good-heartedly, but Man surmised the whole thing succinctly - "You fucked up, bro".
In a way, he was right. I fucked up, small time. But even with my milk tea untouched, and my calves left with cuts that stung, I had one of the most interesting nights throughout my journey through Thailand.
It was serendipitous.
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