Papers, papers...

We stopped at the first checkpoint perhaps five miles outside of  Tachiliek. The passengers disembarked and filed past the guards, showing their papers. I was allowed to remain on the bus with the driver and a red-robed monk, and we drove past a soldier seated with his worn, slightly rusted M16 across his knees. At the fourth and final checkpoint before Kyainge Tong, once again everybody filed past me and off the bus. The first public sign I saw, as we entered the city, was a thirty foot banner which proclaimed, 'The Tatmadaw Will Never Betray National Causes'. I wonder if it's a reminder for the people of the troubled East Shan State, or for the soldiers of the Tatmadaw themselves.

The road from Tachiliek winds up and over the mountains, following the twisting Nam Lin River past countless thatched huts, where pigs roam beneath the stilts, rooting for food. We stopped for lunch at Mongphyet, and from there on the road was in poor repair, with large areas of the road surface weathered away entirely. The road was lined with rubber plantations and groves of banana trees, and as we entered the city the sunshine was reflected in glittering green from the paddy fields beside the pitted highway. I warmed to my guide, who was helpful and informative. His muted criticism of the government, for which he works, was implied rather than stated explicitly. The city makes Tachiliek look modern and over-developed. the only buildings with mains electricity are government institutions, and the 67 ft. standing Buddha on the hill above Naung Tung Lake. As a consequence, the night sky is a dark ocean of stars, and the midnight-black streets throb with the sound of generators.

It's incredibly over-priced as a visiting tourist here. On top of the 1000B per day guide fee (40% of which goes to the government), the foreigner-friendly hotels and guest-houses charge far in excess of the rates for similar accommodation in Thailand. My guide told me that in Mae Sai, Thailand, electricity costs 3B per unit. In Tachiliek it costs 8B, although it comes from the same source, just across the river. His monthly salary is 20,000B, which explains why he is keen to take tourists to this strange little city once or twice a month. The government really has its boot on the necks of the people here. Coming from such an utterly different political system it's very difficult to comprehend.

The day after I arrived, I hired yet another guide, and visited Wan Pin Village, in the hills. The Akha people there converted to Christianity twenty years ago, but sitting on the porch of the 86 year old Shaman's hut, I get the impression the the old man's notional Christianity is a fragile convenience. the large hut stands on stilts, with pigs and chickens, cats, dogs and ducks scurrying wildly beneath the rough boards in search of spilled food. Inside the blackened building a fire burns, coating the wood in smuts of woodsmoke. The male sleeping area is next to the fire on which human food is cooked. On the other side is a second hearth on which animal feed is prepared. Next to this is the women's sleeping quarters, modernised with a mosquito net. When the men are sleeping, the women must enter via the back steps, which also lead to a covered area reserved for conversation and music when the other occupants are asleep. It's hard to believe that the elderly Shaman is so old. Despite his ruined mouth he looks strong and healthy. It's not so difficult to imagine him as a young man , hunting food for his children and wives. His prowess as a hunter is evidenced by animal skulls that hang from the eaves, and an enormous smoke-blackened python skeleton that hangs from the rafters. My Lahu Tribe guide tells me that he was famous as a youth for killing two tigers in the nearby jungle.

 

Leaving the Akha village we walked along a trail to the Pin Tauk Waterfall, a few miles away. It's a beautiful cascade in a cool valley, and when we arrived four young Burmese-speaking locals were squatting around a picnic, drinking rice whiskey and the locally-popular Scotch. they insisted that we join them, and really wouldn't take no as an answer. the rice whiskey wasn't as bad as I'd expected, and I was easily persuaded to have a second shot. They were really getting through the stuff pretty quickly, and I thought we'd better go. One of the girls wanted to know if I was single.

Crossing the stream with something of a wobble, we ascended to the top of the hill, where there's an An village called pangle. The villagers are animist, and the only access is by a narrow path rutted with the monsoon rains. They retain their traditional black dress, and blacken their teeth with lacquer. they believe that it is better to be black on the outside and retian a pure spirit. To maintain the pure spirit of their bodies, they wash their hair only once every three months, and in their head-dress is a wooden stick to relieve the ithcing. During the dry season there is little ofr them to do, and the men build and repair their homes, while the women weave and make jewelry. The latter they sell to the very occasional tourists who visit this part of Myanmar, and within minutes I was surrounded by women and girls thrusting hats and bracelets, scarves and necklaces at me. I bought a black hat embroidered with colourful cotton and a squirrel tail tassle, and a bracelet I liked the look of. Another bracelet I bought because the girl who proffered had almost the same brilliant and beautiful smile as my niece Mia. These children seem happy but they have hard lives ahead of them. They don't attend schools and are expected to work very hard from a young age. I saw one boy, probably around five years old, carrying a baby of no more than two months on his back as he ran and played with the other children. As we left, followed by a small swarm of children, a girl of around eleven years old came down the forest path carrying a heavy load of firewood in a basket looped to her forehead.

Earlier, at the market, my trekking guide pointed out the hill-tribe women sitting on their haunches between the rows of produce. He explained that they were waiting for work, and were usually employed by Shan people and Burmese to transport goods back from the market. they are short, strong people, and carry produce in wicker baskets as did the girl in the hills. Originally from what is now the Yunnan Province in China, the hill tribes who collectively make up the Wa people followed the Mekon River south. When the Shan people of what is now northern Thailand invaded the north and created the 13th century Shan Kingdom, the Wa were expelled from the cities after their slave labour was used to build them. Kyainge Tong, or Chiang Tung as it is known to the Thais, is a sister city of Chiang Mai. Kyainge Tong was claimed by the Thais during their collaboration with the Japanese during WWII. The Shan people of northern Thailand and Myanmar's Eastern Shan State share the same ancestry, and the cultural and historical links between the people of the two states is something Myanmar's military government is attempting to erase from history. A few years ago they demolished the Shan Royal Palace in Kyainge Tong and built a concrete government hotel.

The food that we shared for lunch was typically Shan, and the flavours were very similar to the northern Thai and lanna cuisine I'd eaten in pai and Chiang Rai. We'd shopped for a packed lunch in the incredible market in town, choosing Salong Pit (Shan sausage), Naw Ko (fried shredded bamboo shoots), Naw Moo Ko (fried shredded pork), and La pad To (tea salad with dried beans and peanuts). This was to go with the four different varieties of local rice that we'd bought earlier.

After lunch we drove to another village called Wan pak, where the people are from the palan tribe. We had green tea, bananas and sunflower seeds on th ebalcony of a long hut, which houses perhaps six or seven families. A woman weaving a bag of brightly-dyed cotton stopped to breat-feed her child while we drank, and half-heartedly attempted to interest me in a purchase. Wan Pauk in the plain seems affluent compared to the hill tribe villags in the mountains, and the people make a much more comfortable living from the fertile rice fields surrounding the settlement of 70-80 households. As we left, four men were grappling with a black pig, pulling it down to the ground by its ears, tail and legs. Its fear and astonishment were signalled by an outraged squeal that grew in volume as it was pinioned to a board, and a large knife plunged deep between its forelegs. as the fifth man hammered the knife further into the struggling pig's body its squals became horrified screams that seemed to last forever. I'd never seen a pig slaughtered before and I was shocked by the extent to which the animal's cries of anguish resemble the sound of human screaming.

Before dinner, we visited the temple of wat Zom Khum, with its enormous golden-coloured stupa. On the way down the hill towards the lake we passed an old-fashioned forge, and stepped in to take a look. The blacksmith came out of the house, and began to heat a long blade fashioned from a car suspension leaf. He pumped the large leather bellows until the sword was sufficiently hot and began to work on it. He decorated the back of the blade, hammering geomotric shapes into the metal, and pounding a pice of copper into a slot, smoothing it with a file. The sword was an order from a Chinese customer, and the copper was being added to ensure that it could cut through the flesh and bone of an enemy with even the most powerful tattoo. If a man abstains from meat and alcohol for an entire lunar month, and receives an auspicious tattoo on the night of the full moon, it possesses strong magic, and will protect its owner from any ordinary steel blade.

For dinner we ate Korean barbecue at the suggestion of my guide. It's essentially a contraptuon which allows one to make soup and barbecue meat over the same small pot of coals. The plate of raw pork that arrived to be cooked at the table glistened with blood, and I thought of the man with one foot who'd killed the pig, hobbling away, covered in blood, carrying the big red knife. The meat was excellent but I could still hear the little black pig screaming as it died so slowly.

From the sublime...

Yesterday we took a boat ride up the Mae San Kok River, stopping at Ruannit in the heat of the early afternoon. It's a Karen tribe village whose inhabitants were converted to Christianity at some point, and the economy is completely dependent on tourism. There's an elephant camp next to the village, and everywhere there are Burmese and Reticulated Pythons in cages, to be draped around necks of tourists. It was a strange, sad, poor place, with its unfinished church and women weaving bright scarves on hand looms beside the road. We stayed for lunch and I bought an overpriced chain from a hill tribe lady.

Further up the river we stopped at another village called Akha. The economy was clearly agricultural, with water buffalo wallowing in the mud, and a herd of thin Asian cattle wandering next to the river. It was deserted, and as we walked up the hill we met the villagers returning from the fields, their tools over their shoulders.Returning to the boat, we were approached by a gnarled old lady wearing a traditional head-dress, her teeth blackened stumps, and her mouth bright red from betel juice. I'm not sure which tribe she was from, but she wasn't speaking Thai. She unfurled a cloth roll of brightly-coloured bracelets made with seeds threaded with cotton, and we bought several from her. She insisted that Sam take a photo of me standing next to her, before she waddled off. On the journey home we saw two wild elephants feeding beside the river.

An hour ago I crossed the border into Burma, receiving a two-week pass which permits me to visit the city of Kentung, accompanied by a government-registered guide. It's not an entirely comfortable feeling, knowing that my passport is in the possession of the Burmese military government.

Leaving the immigration office and walking into Tachiliek I was shocked by the contrast between the town of Mae Sai. The streets here are littered with refuse, and there are open sewers running beside the roads. Most of the men wear a  Longyi, not trousers, and cheeks of the Burmese women are painted  a creamy yellow with Thanaka. As I exited the bridge I saw a woman holding a small grey owl tethered to a stick held in her hand. The little bird turned its head as I passed, looking at me
                                       with yellow-lined eyes.

 The drivers here don't politely slow down as they approach, making the adjustment from Thailand, where they drive on the other side of the road, even more difficult. I walked into two guest houses in the city, only to be told that they couldn't offer me a room. The first proprietor explained that they weren't permitted to accommodate foreigners, that he had been waiting two years for a government response to his application to do so.

As I walked around I was offered fake Marlboro cigarettes and viagra, cocaine, methamphetamine, and children to have sex with. Nearly every Burmese child I've seen so far has smiled at me, and waved ecstatically, delighted with the opportunity to practise their 'Hello's and 'Thank you's. They appear much happier than the adults, who seem much more aware of the grim realities of the country in which they live. 

This realm of death...

I'm sitting down to a breakfast of intense coffee from the Thai Highlands, and a plate of fruit that was delivered to the hotel by motorbike several minutes after I ordered. The sweet and bitter flesh will hopefully balance the excesses of yesterday evenings encou8nters with deep-fried foods of various complexions: crispy pork fat, chicken gristle in batter and sesame seeds, small fish fried whole and bursting with roe, and several plates of tempura-style prawns, each of which cost no more than 60p. The night bazaar was bright and busy, with beautiful local silks and dubious 'silver' jewelry for sale. On one sidew of the market area was was a plaza with comfortable wooden benches and burning mosquito coils, a ladyboy show on the stage and menus in English. On the other side was a much wider space crowded with yellow metal tables and chairs, surrounded by small stalls where the various creatures on offer were displayed before being chosen by customers. Thais sat at tables sharing bottles of whiskey and portable dispensers of draught Singha. The same ladyboys came to the stage for a short show, and were replaced by local musicians who sang western-style pop songs in Thai through the huge soundsystem. On many tables were portable braziers beneath pots of soup, into which are put the raw ingredients to complete the dish: cabbage and beansprouts, pork flesh and liver, and an egg which is cooked at the end, thickening and flavouring. The steam from dozens of these hotpots wafted across the plaza, mingling with the smell of a hundred red-hot woks where food sizzled and popped, before being served smoking-hot to the crowds whose appetite seems endless.

Earlier in the day, after arriving from Pai, we'd been unimpressed with Chiang Rai's functional, service-industry feel. The journey had been uncomfortable: the first driver threw the small bus angrily into the bends in the road between Pai and Chiang mai, pushing past the traffic at every opportunity. We passed monks collecting alms in the early morning light, their orange robes flashing past as we sped along. Increasing speed through a village that lined a long stretch of straight road, we came to a sudden, jolting halt, the sound of screeching tyres almost lost beneath that of the blaring horn. A barefoot monk looked on as the bus approached a dog, frozen in fear in the middle of the road. Their eyes shared a widening look of horror before the dog disappeared undert ehy front of the vehicle as the driver slowed too late to a stop. As the monk stooped to look under the wheels the driver accelerated and drove off, leaving the dog to its uncertain fate.



After we found a place to stay in Chiang Rai, and were served spicy papaya salad by an amused vendor at the bus station, we hopped on a hot and crowded bus to Wat Rong Khun, about 13 Km south of the city. The temple is almost beyond description: a vision placed perfectly between heaven and hell. The bone-white structure blazed in the sun, but everywhere the eye was drawn by the realized imagination of the temple's designer. Traffic cones of cast iron line the road, the red and white topped with skulls that face in four directions, grinning into infinity. Dragons and monsters stare down from every surface, and everywhere are reminders of human mortality. Impressed into the skeletal white structure are millions of tiny mirrors that catch the reflection of the heavens and pierce the eyes, blending together the power of the skies with the hard realities of the earth. White fish swim in the moat, and even the barriers erected to prevent access to unfinished areas are topped with ornamental lotus flowers that mimic the roofs of the temple buildings. The causeway that leads to the temple is guarded by monstrous creatures who fight back the denizens of hell whose hands reach up from the ground, clutching towards the faithful as they ascend towards heaven. Inside the crystal stucture itself sits a serene Buddha who gazes out towards the sun. The back wall of the temple is decorated with a fantastic mural that is a riot of the imagination. The entrance and exit is through the mouth of a vast skull, the window above the door its empty nose, its wild eyes looking down at the Buddha who gazes calmy back. At the apex of the roof Buddha is seated on yet another skull, quietly conquering death. Below him spacehsips fly through the cosmos, aliens destroy city buildings, and a cast of unexpected characters appear: Superman, Spiderman, Neo from The Matrix. In the north-east corner Darth Vader stares irresistibly up at you through his dark mask.

Despite the potential for meaningless absurdity, the combination of traditional Buddhist imagery and post-modern science fantasyu somehow creates a profound sense of temporal movement, an impression of the modernity and relevance of Thai Buddhist belief. In the seriousness of the symbolism of death is a great humour that laughs openly at the reminders of mortality that are everywhere. It's at once the strangest and most beautiful place of worship I have ever seen.

On the way home, having foolishly neglected to fathom a means to return to the city, we wandered up the highway towards Chiang Rai. An unpromising stretch of road, we turned back towards the temple, when a policeman stepped out of a small building as we passed. 'Chjiang Rai?', he asked, before taking out his mobile phone. We heard the inevitable 'Falang', and 'Chiang Rai', before he snapped his phone shut and said, 'Five minute.' We asked ifd the bus stopped there, and he said, 'No bus, my friend.' We assumed it would be a taxi-driving acquaintance, but  his friend duly arrived in a crowded pick-up, and we climbed into the back for an open-air ride. When we arrived back at the bus station they were uninterested in petrol money for journey, but later I discovered that I'd left my hat in unintentional payment...

Pai sooooooooo cold...

The road from Chiang Mai to Pai is reputed to have 762 curves, and I certainly didn't envy the girl behind me who was recovering from food poisoning. An hour outside the city and the road ascends into the mountains, winding, steadily uphill through the countryside. The hills are alive with rich green vegetation, and as the road climbs higher the jungle grows thicker. Several hours into the journey and we were looking back across the range of fertile mountains, and into the deep valleys that plunge from the peaks to the rivers below. It was a shock to cross the mountain range and look across the parched landscape of Mae Hong Son Province. The mountains are a barrier, trapping the moisture on their south side, presenting an arid, brown face to the north, while the slopes to the south are verdant and rich with tropical vegetation.

Pai sits in a plain, reached by roads that sweep up into the mountains. The river that runs through the town is shallow at the moment, and the gentle waterfalls along the streams that feed it are mostly feeble now, though the water-carved rock suggests that they are mighty and powerful when the mountains above are washed in the monsoon rains. The town itself has a tourist economy: Thais and westerners come here in large numbers, and there is a laid-back vibe, despite the bars that offer free tequila and sambucca shots. Most of the tourist tat is locally made, and some of it is quite tasteful, particularly when compared to the mass-produced, generic garbage sold in Bangkok and Chiang Mai. As you walk around the town during the day you see hill-tribe women and children who've come to bring their shopping back to their mountain villa

My friend Sam and I took a ride into the mountain range to the north-west of Pai, looking across the rich, verdant jungle to the south, and the brown, parched lands towards Pai. On the way back we stopped where a sign showed the way towards a waterfall. There was no clearly-discernible path through the fields of garlic, and as we began to trudge uncertainly through a gap in the elephant grass a farmer called to us, indicating that we shouldn't go any further. We had no idea why. Further down the mountain we saw a sign for Huay Khew Waterfall and stopped the motorbike. It seemed an unlikely place to find a waterfall, but after walking down a rough path we saw a surging white cascade falling into the cool green river. We returned later but the sun was sinking and it was too cool to swim. The night before we had seen how the setting of the sun had preceded a sharp fall in the temperature, and the swift onset of the cool mountain evening. We had watched the sun set from the mountain temple that sits to the south-west of Pai, and been surprised by the sudden bite of the chill night-time air as we rode down the mountain.

The following day we rode to Tha Pai Hotsprings to warm ourselves in the bathing pools. They're fed by a spring higher on the hillside that reaches temperatures of 80 °C. When we arrived a young woman was boiling eggs in the sulphurous water. The bathing pools are are cooled by mountain stream, and the warm water and radiant sunshine are a wonderful, balmy combination that leaves one almost intoxicated with relaxation. After a lunch of papaya salad with pickled crab, and lovely suki yaki noodle soup, we rode back to Huay Khew Waterfall and swam in the green, cool water until the sun fell. 

The next day, after a breakfast of pork and blood sausage curry, dry Pla Goong, and fried morning glory in a rich oyster and honey sauce, we drove up into the mountains. There was a dense blanket of cloud over Pai, and the tops of the mountains were obscured in a rolling mist. It was cool and wet at the top of the mountain, and the dense jungle glistened with freshly-fallen rain. The emerald green of the hills was flashing intermittently as the clouds parted and the sun momentarily warmed the air. On the way back to Pai we stopped at a Karen tribe village called Huay Khew, where the local men and women looked questioningly at us until we bowed our heads in greeting and they responded with warm smiles and a sharp nod of their own heads. A village woman with a young boy in a papoose walked past while we stood on a bridge overlooking the wide, thirsty river, and she told her child to wave at us. He stared uncomprehendingly at the strange, pale-faced people, mechanically waving his hand in greeting, his eyes wide.

Walking through the streets of Pai in the evening was magical. The electicity hadn't been working all day, and the shops and market stalls were lit with candles, the restaurants quiet and warm with small dancing flames, the streets silver under a full moon as the clouds drifted away. It was a disappointment when the lights suddenly flickered on, but the girls at the table next to us rejoiced at the prospect of eating again, now that the ATMs would be functioning once more.

Sitting down to a meal of garlic prawns and a spectacularly large red snapper, a small black cat jumped on to the bench where I sat, and waited patiently for a share of the spoils. We left him munching happily on the crispy fin bones as we walked down the deserted streets towards the motorbike and home.

Soft Grass Follows the Wind...

My mouth is alive with the spiciest dish I've eaten in Thailand so far: Pla Gung. It's made with raw lemongrass, shallots, garlic chives, red chilies, dried chilies, and it's served cold in a coconut milk sauce with what tastes like tamarind and lime juice, though the menu mentioned something about lemonade. I've never eaten anything like it. Absolutely amazing...

I spent the morning exploring the ruins to the north of the city, stopping to meditate at Wat Mae Chon before wandering slowly up to the ruined temple of Wat Phra Phai Luang. There's a new temple adjacent to the ruins, and I stopped to watch a saffron-clad monk burning fire-breaks in the temple gardens. There are Buddhist proverbs on the trees here too and I strolled around reading them, followed by an extravagantly sociable cat. From there I cycled to Wat Si Chum, where a vast Buddha sits in serene subjugation of Mara, the evil one. When I first arrived a chattering crowd of Thai schoolchildren were surging out of the temple, their heads bowed as they passed the waiting tourists. The German-speaking guide who was waiting to take a bus-load of tourists into the temple explained that the children were expected to lower their heads out of respect for their elders, and for foreigners. Three minutes after they went inside they filed out again and I was left alone in the cool stone space, which had been transformed instantly to a magical place of quiet contemplation. The Buddha is perhaps the most peaceful I have seen, his open eyes gazing down, compelling respect and instilling quietness. His serene gaze was a gift of calm, and his quiet smile brought a sense of warmth and comfort.

After paying my respects I continued north, following a bumpy path between paddy fields, past jungle ruins and a bright green sea of rice. When I turned around and came back I found a motorbike parked beside the road. Balanced on the seat was a basket containing a machete and a large comb of wild honey, a few lonely bees crawling confusedly in and out of the cells. Its owner emerged from the jungle carrying wild nuts and added them to the basket, along with some broken coconut pieces.While I had been waiting for him I'd looked for a place to sit in the shade, hoping he might have some more honey that he could be persuaded to sell. I was about to sit down on an ancient brick wall when I noticed a pile of animal bones. Looking closer I saw half-buried sacks, and brittle white skeletons littering the pit that was once part of the temple complex. Now it looks like somewhere for local people to deposit the remains of cats and dogs that are too slow for the night-time traffic.

Tomorrow I'll leave Sukhothai, and head north. I don't know where I'll go yet. I'll see where the wind takes me...

The Dawn of Happiness...

Sukhothai is derived from the words sukha and uthai, meaning the dawn of happiness. It's influence once spread as far north as Vientiane, now in modern Laos, and the Thai alphabet that is in use today originated within the kingdom. The city was founded in 1257, and within 150 years it had pushed the mighty Khmer Empire back to the borders of modern Cambodia. Many of the temples bear traces of Hindu influence, and Wat Si Sawai, for example, is believed to have been a Hindu temple before it was adapted for Buddhist worship.

Last night I went for dinner with Marion, who is also staying at the Old City Guesthouse, and afterwards she was talking with the lady who cooked for us, asking her questions in her animated, superbly-accented English, The lady wanted to know where we came from, and when she found out that Marion was Swiss she excitedly told us that her brother lived there, studying or practising law. At one point she went into a back room and returned with a dusty and well-worn French-English dictionary, leafing through until she found the wiord 'loi'. We talked for a while, and her husband joined in for a few words every so often. Eventually he went to his counter, nd came back with an amulet which he pressed into my hand as he performed a solemn, formal wai. I returned his wai spontaneously, my heart beating with gratitude and pleasure. I made another deep wai without really thinking, and it struck me what a powerfully appropriate gesture it is, and how well it represents the true feeling of humble gratitude. He gave me another amulet to give to Marion, and explained that it was the Buddha from Wat Maha That in Sukhothai's Old City. It is a truly special gift.

Later that evening we travelled by tuk-tuk into New Sukhothai to search for music and somewhere to have a few beers. On the way home we hailed another tuk-tuk with a driver who went to his house to gather jackets for all three of us on the chilly journey home. Mine was a Thai silk jacket of shining silver with dark blue lapels which our driver said was his jacket for playing music. He said he plays the drums, and was delighted when I said I play the violin, miming the motion to be understood over the whistling wind. We stopped at an out-of-town shop on the way and he and I had a can of Chang each. When we arrived back at the Old City he gave me a solemn wai and presented the jacket as a gift for me to wear when I play music. Its European debut will be the 2011 Oxford Folk Festival.

This morning we watched the sun rise at Wat Maha That, then had a breakfast of Pad Thai and Tom Yung Goong. Afterwards we cycled out of the Namo Gate to the south of the city. After Wat Ton Chan we passed a small farm where a tiny puppy was struggling across the yard. We asked if we could come and look, and the family invited us in, bringing intolerably cute puppies to us, one after the other, each of them crawling with large black fleas that writhed on their bellies. The young child who brought the dogs for us to see gave me a sharp, formal wai after depositing the dog in my hands. The smallest was obviously the runt of the litter and it was clear that its brief life would be over in a matter of days.

Further down the road, at Wat Chetuphan, we saw strange structures made of leaves scattered on the ground, then Marion noticed a seething mass of red ants marching up and down a tree. They seemed to be harvesting the tree resin and the oblomg leaf-boxes must have been temporary nest sites. Within seconds we had been bitten by several of the soldiers, each of them over half an inch long. The one that sunk its powerful jaws into Marion's big toe was forceful enough to draw blood. We crossed the road to Wat Chedi Si Hong, and for an hour afterwards we were both twitching and jumping at the phantom ants we could feel on our skin, and brushing imaginary ants for our clothing.

Contentment is Natural Wealth...

On the train to Phitsanulok, heading towards Sukhothai. Children bathing in pools beside the tracks, rice planting and ploughing in the paddy fields, mighty gold Buddhas on the hillsides, and thousands of black and white wading birds. I saw a white squirrel running along a telegraph line in the glaring sun, and a kite gliding though the air reminded me of Oxford. I saw cattle with enormous drooping ears. Their white bodies seem to be melting, beaten down by the white heat of the sun, their molten flesh pulled down in gravity's unrelenting grasp.

Sukhothai itself seemed uninviting, but the Old City I've come to see is some distance from the town. We pulled into the bus station, but most of the passengers stayed on board, heading towards Sukhothai Historical Park. I was anxious, thinking I'd be forced to hire a tuk-tuk to take me back to the bustling town to find a place to stay, but I've got an en-suite room for less than £4 per night, inside the city walls. Opposite the guest house is an island temple where there are Buddhist proverbs on wooden plaques attached to the trees:

It is not the man who has too little who is poor,

But the man who craves more.

Old age is no cause for regret.

Regret that one is old,

Having lived in vain.

He who is afraid to ask is ashamed of learning.

By others faults wise men correct their own.

Today I was up at cock crow to watch the sun rise over the ruins of the Old City. I had coffee and papaya salad for breakfast at the family restaurant next to the guest house. I was sceptical at first, snobbishly preferring to eat from the street vendors at the market, but a girl I met in the temple at sunset told me it was nice, and we were taken there last night by Kot, a local taxi driver, who recommended dishes and explained how to order them in Thai. Needless to say, it was excellent food. For lunch today I bought sticky rice and chicken tails, and I'm amazed at the Thai ability to make almost anything taste delicious. The honey sauce used on the barbecued chicken in this part of Thailand is particularly good.

This morning was magical. The cool breeze was almost a shock after the oven-heat days, and a lesson that rising early is essential here in Thailand. The incredible richness of the morning sun as it struck the temples was absolutely breath-taking. Sukhothai's Old City is by the far the best park I have come across, and I felt especially prifvileged to be there early in the morning before the crowds arrived. I spent much of the time simply walking around and laughing out loud at the tranquility and peacefulness of the place. I'll go back to Wat Maha That to watch the sun set this evening, and I have no doubt it will be as richly rewarding. But I am beginning to understand the Thai ability to sleep anywhere and anytime at literally a nod of the head...