The Backpacking Housewife: Escape around the world with this feel good novel about second chances!. Janice Horton
spend the afternoon walking the streets of the old town. I stop for a delicious Pad Thai washed down with a cold local beer at a busy and popular-looking street food stall. I devour the meal. Anyone would think that I hadn’t tasted food in weeks. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. The soft noodles and the fish sauce and tamarind and fresh lime flavour is exquisite in my mouth. How can such a basic dish that costs so little taste so good?
With my hunger satisfied, my thirst quenched and my mood lifted, I explore the bustling market, primarily looking for a few more items of clothing and some underwear, but to my dismay, the only undergarments I can find are tiny slips of silk and lace. As my knickers of choice are usually plain cotton from M&S, I flick through all those on offer looking for comfort.
With none to be found, I actually consider buying some men’s cotton underpants instead, reasoning that besides the baggy Y-front bit at the front they look like my sort of thing.
You’ll be relieved to know I didn’t. Instead, I give in and buy several pairs of colourful silk and lacy ones, although I’m convinced they’ll be uncomfortable and scratchy.
I am, however, pleased with my other purchases of loose-fitting cotton shorts in lovely bright colours, a pair of elasticated, baggy, hippy-style, elephant-patterned trousers (everyone seems to be wearing them and they look so comfortable), and several floaty cotton dresses and skirts and silk scarfs and sarongs – and all for such ridiculously cheap prices that I can’t bring myself to barter for them even a little.
In a second-hand book shop, I browse and manage to pick up a tourist map and a Lonely Planet: Thailand guidebook. Then, with my bags of shopping, I wave down a tuk-tuk to take me back to the homestay. I’ve never ridden in a tuk-tuk before and I’m really looking forward to the experience. It’s one of those things that everyone says you must do in Thailand. I suppose it’s like a rite of passage. No matter how dangerous and foolhardy it might seem at the time.
I can see there are two distinct types of tuk-tuk whizzing up and down the street at breakneck speeds. All are performing traffic ploys and manoeuvres that would certainly be illegal back in the UK and outrageously dangerous anywhere. The first type of tuk-tuk looks like a small motorbike with a precarious homemade sidecar welded haphazardly onto it. Or, there’s the more purpose-built three-wheeler with a domed-cab type that has a bench seat in the back.
The latter looks a little safer of the two, but of course as soon as I raise my hand, the one that screeches to a halt beside me with its engine popping and its driver grinning at me like a maniac is the precarious kind. I climb onboard and we’re immediately off, with both the warm evening air and every other vehicle’s exhaust fumes blowing in my hot face and through my sweaty hair. I cling onto the rattling open-sided framework, gritting my teeth.
As we enter the main traffic stream of cars and trucks and scooters and other tuk-tuks and open back trucks packed with passengers, we seem to be racing against teams of whole families sitting astride one scooter – Dad is driving and his young son is sitting between his knees, his wife is sitting primly side-saddle with a new baby in her arms, and their tiny daughter is sandwiched on the seat between her mum and dad. No one wears a helmet and all of them are carrying something like a shopping bag or a lunchbox or even a sack of rice.
At the roundabout-of-no-rules, I hold on even tighter and bite down on my lower lip to stop myself squealing in terror as we join the weaving masses, where just one vehicle either slowing or hesitating or wobbling would cause absolute carnage.
We somehow manage to come through unscathed and as we judder to a halt at the next set of traffic lights, I’m distracted from the mayhem of the death-defying junction ahead of us by the sights on either side of me. There is a large monkey sitting quietly in the front basket of a motorbike to my left and of the two men astride a small scooter to my right, one of them is carrying a fridge. It’s certainly an interesting and exhilarating way to get around town.
On my first morning in Chiang Mai, I wake early, just as the sun is coming up. I make myself a cup of coffee from the hospitality tray in my room and take it out onto the first-floor terrace that overlooks the street. I had expected the street to be deserted at this time of the day, but the opposite is true. I see lots of people lining the street, all holding bags of food or bowls of fruit and bottles of water, and they all seem to be waiting for something or someone.
Soon, along comes a posse of bald monks wrapped in saffron coloured robes, all carrying bowls. I’d say they were begging bowls, except clearly these monks don’t need to beg.
I watch, fascinated, as the monks walk slowly and purposefully down the street in a single line, oldest first, gracefully and humbly, and mostly barefoot. Then I see Noon, my landlady, standing at the roadside too. I watch her take a step into the path of an approaching monk and lay her offerings onto a cloth on the ground before him. She quickly drops to her knees in front of him with her head lowered and her hands pressed tightly together at her forehead. The monk stops in front of her and picks up the bag of cooked rice and the fruit she has laid down and places them in his bowl before giving her a blessing. His melodic chanting fills the street and floats into the air to reach my ears.
I go back inside feeling like I’ve just witnessed something very special indeed.
Later, I ask Noon if this procession happens every day or just on special occasions.
She explains that the monks are from a nearby temple and they rely on the people of the town to offer them ‘alms’ of food, water, and sometimes medicine. ‘Every morning, the monks walk along the street to collect what they need for the day. We offer rice, fruit, some steamed vegetables, all to show our love and respect. But, if the giver is a woman, she must never offer her gifts by hand. She must lay down a cloth between them as the monk is forbidden to ever touch a woman.’
‘And the chanting? What does that mean?’ I ask her.
‘That is a Buddhist blessing to honour me with a happy and purposeful life.’
‘A happy and purposeful life…’ I repeat wistfully.
Her words strike a chord, and I decide right at that moment that all I want in my life is to be happy and purposeful. It doesn’t seem such a lot to want or to ask for and yet to be blessed with those two simple ingredients in my life would mean that I have everything to live and to thrive.
‘And can anyone get blessed by a monk?’ I ask.
Noon laughs and tells me that in Chiang Mai there are over three hundred temples and that in any one of them, should I wish, I can be blessed by a monk.
I immediately tell her that I’d like to stay on here for another two nights.
Then I go out to seek as many temples and as many blessings as I can possibly find.
According to my guidebook, the most significant temple in Chiang Mai is Wat Doi Suthep, which is also one of the holiest Buddhist sites in Thailand. It’s the one every pilgrim or tourist has at the top of their hitlist. The temple sits on the top of a mountain and it overlooks the city.
I take a ‘songthaew’ open back taxi truck with several other Western tourists and we head up the winding mountain road, soon finding ourselves surrounded by dense tropical forest. In the trees, our driver points out colourful birds and small swinging monkeys. I strain my eyes to see them in the wild. I’m captivated by all the monkeys!
As we make our way further up the mountain road, we drive higher and higher past (supposedly haunted) waterfalls that fall dramatically from the cliffs above us and then gather in glistening pools far below us. I feel like I’m on a wild and epic adventure.
When the taxi truck pulls up and we all climb out, it’s clear we’re not quite there yet, as there is still a towering staircase ahead of us to climb. I brace myself for the ascent but I’m stopped from going any further by a small Thai woman, who I assume is trying to sell me something. I politely decline her several times, but she is ever more insistent, waving a garment at me and shouting ‘naughty knees, naughty knees!’
Fortunately, another tourist helps me out. It turns out that I’m