"Chiang Mai's the other way" goes the joke—a justifiable one, seeing how .08% tourists out of 100 ever set foot into Thailand's most-unknown, yet largest area. I had first heard about it from Joe Cummings, of whom was mentioned in the interview with Andrew Benfield in this issue—to say Joe was the (underlined) expert on all things Siam is an understatement—and anything from him should and has been taken as gospel.
Landlocked and flat, out of the way and admittedly lacking in beauty, there really was no real need to visit, but due to the reshoots of those commercials, I only had 10 days remaining on my visa, and so my friend Nadda, who had recently given a large amount of time, suggested we simply drive to the Laos border, hooking my bike up to the back of her SUV.
Leaving Bangkok was an adventure in itself. I've already mentioned the strangeness of it being back to busy, but traffic this time seemed to return with extreme prejudice. It took us an hour to move eight miles, but once we were out, we could feel it. Room to breathe. Shoulders back to normal position. Even a hint of a blue sky. Our destination tonight wasn't too far away—Nadda's family had a traditional home in the town of Saraburi—only two hours north of Bangkok, which made for a nice easy beginning, but first, we had to stop by my friend Claude's, the mad East Berlin artist, famous for his half comforting/half disturbing art as well as his lethal Negroni's. He laughed at the sight of my bike being hitched to the back, remembering us all to the last time I had tried to cycle out of Bangkok—turned away from a national park by the police (Covid) and simply thrown it on a train to save myself a day's circumvent. "Does it actually work properly?" he laughed, a heavier hand with each round.
By 8pm we were sat on those famous Thai pillows, streetfood in bellies and an almost-uncomfortable silence outside. When was the last time I heard crickets? It'd been forever. Reminded me of home and I liked that. Oklahoma ain't got much, but quiet nights with lots of critters in legion.
The next day, our adventure began. Not as I had hoped—my dream of shooting 35mm at a temple destroyed by time was crushed, seeing how it was flooded due to rainy season—but soon we were driving through... well, nothing. Long. Straight. Flat. Dull. But I had expected all of these things. If there was any draw to the area whatsoever, it'd have already been ruined by tourism, as sadly so much of Thailand already has. What I wasn't expecting, however, was the level of chili added to even the kindest of dish, and my first Isaan meal was spent head spinning, downing water and unable to even get through an entire sentence. I knew how to order something "not spicy" in Thai—one of the first lessons one learns—but this was next-level spice, and so my previous request of nit noi was now nit-nit-NIT noi.
More driving. More nothingness. An occasional hill to make us both go "Oh", but nothing that demanded a photo. Just grass. Farmland. Friendly people. Big people ("TikTok and Coca-Cola" laughed Nadda). But finally we made it to our first touristic destination, the temple of Wat Ban Rai.
For a religion founded on peace and tranquility, the sight of Wat Ban Rai is alarming to say the least. The first arresting sights are the "Naga"—the sea dragon + unofficial guardians of Buddhism + official (stamped) national mythological creature in Thailand—guarding the bridge to an I-don't-even-know-how tall elephant (150 feet if I was guessing), decorated in more than 2 million mosaics.
The Naga would continue to pop up through this trip, but I'm getting ahead of myself. What we should be pointing our attention to is just how trippy of a temple this Wat Ban Rai truly is.
Psychedelic ceilings.
Awesome angels on motorbikes.
I never did find out what was going on here. Nadda told me the entire grounds—measuring more than 20 soccer/football fields—built buy and now dedicated to toa famous monk, (famous for whacking people with his stick), but who knows. I had been... well, I was about to say "warned" by a friend of mine from Bangkok about the "strange beliefs" the folks of Isaan had, and fair enough—Christians say that about Catholics, Muslims about Hindu—but a scene straight from Woodstock I wasn't expecting.
The next morning, in the town of Mai Mueang ("Mueang" means Central District) we walked over to Phi Mai's "Little Siem Riep", an crumbling old temple from the late 11th century, and a previously-important site and town of the Khmer Empire. But unlike Siem Reap these days, no one was around... which added to the childlike fun of exploring it early in the morning.
But even better than that was our first proper Isaan lun—actually, wait, no. Hang on. I write that with positivity and enjoyment now, a few weeks after the trip itself. I wasn't singing its praises back then. Lemme explain.
Before leaving, Joe sent me an article he'd penned about his recent trip to Isaan. I'd link to it, but, if I'm being honest, I hate my style of writing this piece, a day-by-day "And then we did this and then we ate that" but it's the only way to explain this region, so I'm currently not too happy with my output and if I linked to Joe's article, you'll probably opt to read his stuff... ANYWAY, midway through his piece, he begins talking about the eye-watering version of Som Tam they make here. Wait, even that's not true. What they make IS the true form of Som Tam, as it was later sweetened/dumbed-down in a sense for the rest of Thailand. But here, in Isaan, where it began, they use something called "plaa raa" (non-pasteurized fish sauce made from river fish and sticky rice).
And it's horrible. Putrid. Rank. Nearly spoiled. If it were a t-shirt, you'd throw it out. It hits your eyes first and then your nose, this rotten, tepid, acidic brown-colored assault on every good sense you previously had. And I wasn't ready for that. Nadda tried to warn me, but I went all in. I'm a notoriously fussy eater and that had kept me from numerous layers to an adventure. So whatever it was, I was in.
Looks good, right? Going clockwise-ish, that there with the basil on top is [duck] Laab, another famed Isaan specialty, to the right is my first go at Som Tam (note the color), to its right is pork cracking, and then bottom left is grilled chicken, and the top left is this Isaan style herbal soup, called Gaeng Om. A gorgeous spread, to be sure, but we need to get into this Som Tam.
What I thought was going to be like a ceviche-like process of the sauce cooking the raw shrimp was not. It was just raw shrimp. So now I had two things going against me. Wait. No. Hang on. That's also not true. I had three things, as it was beyond the normal understanding of spicy. 30% more.
Meaning, I gotta be honest, I didn't like any of it.
"You'll get used to it" winked Nadda.
"No I won't", I said between these weird hiccups I get when things are too spicy.
From there we continued east—at this point nestled right in the corner of Cambodia and Laos—with a stop by the glass bottle wat, which is exactly what it sounds like, some monk seeing an opportunity for endless building materials and so he did it. I don't know why I didn't take any good close-up photos for you. Probably that fucking fish sauce.
Still reeling from First Lunch, I decided to wash my fermented fish mouth out with some very safe (although, still very spicy) Pad Kra Pao on the side of the road. I'd also forgotten I had one of Nadda's split-frame 35mm cameras, so wound in a roll of film and begun shooting. I might even include some of those in this piece. If you see them, then I did.
We arrived in Ubon Ratchathani and liked it immediately. Of course, this was all pre-programed in a sense, as Joe seemed to point in his article to what a gem this place was, but also my previous neighbor and best friend Scott, who also insisted that we spend time there.
In fact, within the first hour of being there, both Nadda and I liked it so much, we decided that evening to stay two days. Really get to know the place if we could. It felt like one of those places you should if you have the chance.
(Note: It was here where I launched Issue 02: Sri Lanka from! HOW META ARE WE!) Anyway, to the crown jewel of Isaan we head.
There was an air of relaxation like nowhere else in Thailand—and perhaps that was the draw. As mentioned, every single square inch of Thailand these days seems to come with an English menu, making this the last bastion of what the country used to be like. But even saying that, what it "used to be like" was actually Laos, as this was once part of Laos—I believe it was the French who made the Mekong the dividing line—making this area somewhat of a hybrid.
To give you an example:
We passed a monk with some normal people.
Nadda whispered "They're from Laos."
I asked her how she knew.
"They're speaking Lao."
Okay, you laugh, but Nadda understood most of it; and explained it to me as:
"The Lao language is considered a 'brother language' of Thai—sharing the same route.The difference here being that the Isaan dialect is leaning towards the Laos side."
But whatever it was—the rain, the pace, the not-one-other-farang—the peaceful non-hurry of anything was casually infectious, resulting in a very late start seeing the city.
The first order of business though was food. I now knew what to expect and I wanted to pay homage to Joe by eating at one of his favorite restaurants, of which he'd been going to since the late-80s.
And while not to give away the surprise, it was the best meal we had in all of Isaan.
The laab was made out of catfish, shockingly good and now my preferred way to eat it. Top photo was a fresh and crunchy lotus stem salad, a fitting plant for this mirroring lackadaisical vibe (it was also known as "poor people's food", seeing how it was everywhere), the the right was Mok Laab Plaa Thong—fish laab wrapped in banana leaf and grilled, bottom right, the dish they're famous for—grilled chicken marinated in condensed milk, bottom right, that stinky som tam we now love, and, of course, two baskets of sticky rice, that came themselves with an anecdote.
"It's a famous joke that men from Northern Thailand, when they're about to meet their girlfriend's father, rub this rice on their palms" explained Nadda, "hoping it would harden by the time he shook hands with his future father-in-law and hopefully denoting calloused hands by hard work."
Speaking of Nadda, I was appreciative she understood my need to be by myself. It had now been 3 days/24/7 and for someone who's on his own and often goes days without a conversation, this was a lot for me. I did my best to explain it and she kindly listened and let me have the afternoon to myself. That's one of those things you probably never think of—things that come with this solitary existence—having to tell good people who you actually really like that you don't want to be with them for the next five hours. I'm constantly working on that razor's edge, and apologies if I've ever offended any of you with it.
I walked the small city, ducking underneath any friendly shop when it started to rain, admiring the bric-a-brac nature of its design (or lack thereof). It was said that Ubon Ratchathani used to be a happening town—famous for its international trade (you can see on a map how this would be a perfect setting)—but a somewhat confusing change in taxes that lured investors/merchants from neighboring countries away, along with the always-present and usually-correct suggestion of China and its railroads—left this city in an almost arrested stage of a progress. The buildings were built, but not in time. The people came, but most left for Bangkok. So what you have left are a) people from here and b) people moving back here because they want to. A good and happy mix for any town. Nadda would later tell me that a lot of this city's rebirth had come from rich kids moving here from Bangkok to open up coffee shops, as evident by the town's hundreds of hip cafes. But there was a draw of the town even adjectives seem to lack in capturing. Too sleepy to be self-conscious, too much influx of influence to be proud. Brutalist next to Sino-French architecture. Mismatched colors and designs, but only the outsider seemed to notice. What they did notice, however, was you. Much as the people who live hear meant to live here, they also acknowledge that this is as far away from the tourist trail as any white boy could get, and their confused happiness to see you in genuine... as soon as you let them finish the Chaing Mai joke.
The next day was an early start, as we had decided to make the entire 5 1/2 hour drive and end up in a place called Nakorn Phanom, the hometown of my streetfood lady La, of whom I wanted to send a photo. The coffee took 20 minutes, despite the fact we were the only ones in the cafe, but we'd gotten used to that. Caffeine-d up, we finally reached the Mekong, celebrating being on the famed river—directly across from Laos, by the way, which is super cool—with a Vietnamese meal, the first I'd had in a while.
The food, the Mekong, all of it began to get me excited about the bicycle trip. How easily I'd forgotten that was coming up.
We arrived to Nakorn Phanom late. Upon unpacking in the hotel, I discovered that I had, once again, left my favorite hemp sarong behind. And while this might seem like a silly thing to include, it's quickly turning into a fascinating supporting character. In Sri Lanka, I had to backtrack two hours (in a tuktuk!) to pick it up from the previous hotel and now, Nadda had to call the hotel, who tracked down the manager, who herself had to take it to the courier, who would then put it on the bus, of which would send it to the local bus terminal where we were, of which poor Nadda then had to drive to, wait, fill out of a form and then bring back.
We're talking about a 2x1 cut of hemp here, but when you don't have much, you hang onto what you can.
ANYWAY.
We were wondering why there weren't many hotels to choose from (again, this is Isaan) and that night we'd find out why. Remember the Naga we saw at the temple that second say? Well this town loves their Naga—evident by a huge statute in the middle of town, next to the Mekong, of which many still believe the Naga lives in.
The festival was enjoyable for many reasons, the big one being aside from the occasional older white man who enthusiastically smiled thinking I was part of a small group of older white men who'd married a Thai and ended up here, this was a local gathering. A hot and sticky, yet peaceful and kind weekend festival in honor of the giant snake protector of their religion. I very much enjoyed it.
We walked and snacked and had just reached the end of the boardwalk when we saw first the smile, then the talents, of a young lady who'd set up shop. Both Nadda and I were immediately drawn to her huge woven reed bags ("Will hold 50 kilos/100 pounds!" she proudly said), and so both Nadda and I bought one. It was too big to mail and is waiting in Bangkok, so whoever wants it, make an offer. Highest bidder and all that. I really is a great bag.
The next day, we lazily made our away around the town again, and immediately fell for it. As nice as Ubon Ratchathani was, there was something even more to this place. Maybe it was the location, right across from the limestone peaks of Laos, maybe it was the Naga, maybe it was because of my affinity for La or the incredible architecture, but it would end up being the highlight of the trip.
Again, it's nowhere that you'd ever end up, which I think adds to it.
As great as the hotels had been, I'd desperately wanted to try out my new tent—some may remember the tiny and uncomfortable one I usually travel with being, well, tiny and uncomfortable for someone my size, so I decided to take on the extra weight and get a bigger one that not only I could stand up in, but also could keep the bike with me as well—so we found a campsite an hour away from Nakong Phenom and headed there for a trial run of what was soon to be a loooooooot of camping for this fella.
And as luck would have it, not only was it spacious and relatively easy to put up, it came topped with a rainbow, almost as if the Mekong and Nagas possibly below in her waters, were blessing the adventures to come.
Of course, the blessing we didn't get what whatever Buddhist deity handled silence, as the waters below were where the old school night fisherman lived, meaning we got to listen to them tell tall tales all night, sponsored by rice wine, the heat coming in was nearly unbearable making for no sleep, and the next morning, a large steel shrimpboat that we hadn't noticed next to us was had apparently been sentenced to death by small hammers.
We were miserable. But the tent had stayed up. It had kept out the rain. And despite it being 90 degrees by 9am, it got me looking forward to camping nonstop.
The heat index would end up topping 104 that day, keeping us indoors or in-car as much as possible, stopping only to eat—the second greatest meal of all the trip, just this roadside lady grilling chicken, slinging laab, pummeling stinky Som Tam and rounding it all out with a dreamy ice cold Coca-Cola.
How quickly one becomes to this horrible sauce. I can now no longer stomach the sugar-sweet dumbed-down version of Papaya Salad that we all know. It's kind of like Bleu Cheese in that sense. No going back. Welcome to the muddy vortex.
As we drove through the town of Udon Thani, Nadda mentioned that no trip to Isaan would be complete without finding a traditional sarong, and began telling me how some band member of some K-Pop group has been known to wear one—she herself from Isaan—quickly making it the fashion item to own.
In all honestly, I'd never heard of Blackpink. Hang on, that's a lie. I'd seen the name on a pack of Oreos but I just thought it was one of those weird flavors you only find in Asia.
As it turns out, they're pretty well-known (great set at Coachella, actually). As it also turns out, ever since binging The White Lotus (both seasons, 3x), I've discovered that there's an fabric-lover in me and jumped at any excuse to find some more, so off to the market we went.
Nadda began by showing me the traditional men's patterns...
And then the women's.
However, I was taken with this blue/white checkerboard pattern and so talked the lady into cutting and hemming me a sarong out of it.
From there, it was to our final destination of the the border town of Nong Khai, where we spent two days doing nothing except eating more of that stinky papaya salad, drinking beer, pool-ing and going over last-minute needs for this old fella to get on his bike and ride away.
Nadda and I shared a teary goodbye, as we'd both become quite close friends over the past couple of weeks, and I cycled up to the border gate, over the Friendship Bridge and into Laos...
Where the bike adventure official began.
Note: This piece took me longer than any other piece I've written in a long time. I'd end up hating it and hating this style of writing. It's the reason Issue 03 was late and if you made it this far, thank you—we won't be doing this style of entry again.
