A Soundtrack of Mexico City

As we have been going about our shopping and exploring in Mexico City these past few days, we have been carried along by the sounds of this place.  At San Angel artisan market, we were met with the playfully instructive demonstrations of the toy violins by Guillermo Figueroa as he chose the best ones for us to buy.  And was that a cat screeching in the wriggling black bag  the gentleman was holding as we were carefully selecting the Lorenzo paintings?  Our horror turned to annoyance when the cat screech turned to a parrot caw; he had a noise maker in his mouth.  Those sounds followed us through the day as did the drone of “botaneros, botaneros, botaneros” by strolling women relentlessly hawking decorative wooden cocktail picks.  The unheard sound of salsa music entertained as we watched the dance class through the large plate glass window of a second story building while we wiltedly waited for our taxi at the end of the shopping day.

The remaining  days in Mexico City  have been punctuated by fireworks’ whirrs and pops left over from the bicentennial celebration of the Independencia, and soothed with the sounds of classical guitar at a corner cafe as well as the smooth tenor notes of a strolling singer in an antique gallery.  And our nights’ sleep have been jolted by brake squeals, drunken conversation, and bad rock bands from the bar across the street.  But we were lulled back to sleep with quiet memories of Jorge Marin’s empty angel wings filled by a mother and child on a boulevard near Chapultepec Park

Jorge Marin's sculpture "Alas de la Ciudad", 2010

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Blessings far from home

When I get back home, I am going to dig out my old passport to see exactly which year I first came to Chiang Mai. Was it 1998? 1999? Yesterday as we paused at a traffic light, Sopin, my friend and driver for many years, lifted a folded copy of a Mingei newsletter from April 2000 from the dashboard of his car and handed it to me, grinning. On the side facing up was a photo of Sopin I took in January of that year, showing him holding a small child in the playground at the Vienping Children’s Home, a local orphanage we visited that year. We had heard about Vienping from a Japanese sociologist we had met and had been curious to see if we could help their efforts to support families with HIV and to place children with no other options with new families. After several hours inside, we found Sopin quietly rocking and talking to a little girl by the swings. He looked up, his eyes full of tears, smiling. As we drove away, he explained that he came there often and gave money when he could. He was so grateful for his own daughter and for his son, who he had raised after his brother could not. Sopin won my heart that day.

My friend and driver Sopin, resting for a moment in the passenger seat of his car.

Each time I have returned, Sopin, who lives across a small lane from my base at the Galare Guest House, has been my driver, and we have become friends—friends who can only speak in a sort of pidgin and mime—but friends who have shared children’s photos and stories on long car rides for at least ten years. As we ride, Sopin leans toward me and I speak loudly to be heard over the traffic sounds and past his hearing loss which occurred when he was in the army and a shell exploded near his left ear. Sopin has been my cultural and linguistic interpreter, my source for where to find offering bowls or packing straps, for which pharmacist to visit when I have been ill, for where to eat the best Khao Soy noodle soup.

I remember our first days with him in the red truck he used to have before it was ruined when the Mae Ping River flooded a few years ago—dashing to get boxes to the post office the last day of our trip. In the last few years Sopin’s wife Tim has sewn “Made in Thailand” labels on all the scarves and bags and cotton toys I have bought here—and there have been a lot! They have also generously stored goods in their tiny home for us until they could be taken to shipping.

Tim and Sopin Boonkiat

This visit has me awash in nostalgia. I have been coming to this place on the other side of the world from my home for many years but never staying very long, generally about a week per visit. I do not speak Thai—only a “Sawatikah” and a “Kapunkah” here and there—pitiful really after so much time and a puzzlement to my friend Steve Werner who has lived here many years, speaks Thai fluently and plays host to a growing crowd of expats and travelers at his restaurant Spirit House at the northern end of the city. He always asks when I will be able to stay longer, to become a part of the circle of friends who sit at the big table.

Even with the language barrier, I have come to love this place and am grateful for the familiarity of my work here. I have been buying silk from Vinita for a decade, digging through bins of clay amulets from the same vendor and stopping in to visit the amulet seller’s scholarly brother to see what artifacts he has. I have seen their children grow, their shops renovated, their temples gray and I appreciate the smile of recognition and the wai when I step into their shop each year.

Entrance to the Galare Guest House in Chiang Mai

Fon's warm spirit and ready laugh help make the Galare a special place.

As you drive into the compound that is the Galare Guest House, it is impossible not to notice the wood sign that says “Your Home Away from Home”. It has been that for me. I have always stayed at the Galare and while I sometimes have flirted on Tripavisor with other options, I always come back. I enjoy the peaceful breakfast by the Mae Ping River, the warm laughter of Fon at the desk and the generous staff that has changed little in the time I have been coming. The staff here has been here a long time; they also never seem to age while my hair grays more each year. And—Sopin and Tim are right across the lane. My family and few of my “home “ friends have ever been here, but this place has become a part of my story.

This year is different. Sopin is on dialysis after spending a month in the hospital last September. He has lost 20 kilos and more of his hearing. His port, bound in clean white gauze, bulges from his open collar He tires more easily.

Sopin's trusty Super Saloon, which now must be hot-wired to start each time.

His car, the “Super Saloon”, the large old sedan missing its front bumper still sits in the alley by his house lovingly covered with a cotton cloth and a hand-made A-frame “Taxi” sign. The coins—old and new brought to him by friends and customers from all over the world- that once covered the doors and the dashboard have been pulled off and put in plastic bags, leaving little adhesive marks all over the interior. Tim took those and the paper bills from the ceiling off last September, thinking the car would have to be sold. But his special amulets in cases still swing form the rearview mirror. A photo of the Chicago skyline and a new dragon bobble from Mexico add to the décor. A special few monk and Buddha figures still sit above his steering wheel and the gear-shift is still ringed with many white cotton Buddhist blessing cords, with a new addition.  The other day as we embarked on rounds the morning after his last dialysis session, Ellen gently tapped my on the shoulder from the back seat and pointed discreetly—a pale blue plastic hospital bracelet rested atop the cotton cords.

Blessing cords

Now, we are headed home. In a few hours, Sopin will drive us and our many bags to the airport for the long haul back to family, friends, our homes and our work. While I haven’t asked any of the temple fortune-tellers what lies ahead, I hope to be returning next year, no doubt a shade grayer, and I hope to spend more days with Sopin in the Super Saloon.

— Ann

“My mother is looking at the sky.”

Every night in Luang Prabang, a forest of red canopies appears down the main street.  The night market features mostly Hmong women selling hand-made goods, T-shirts and imported knock-off craft items from China.  An occasional stall will have a collection of old sticky rice baskets, a few pieces of jewelry or some old textiles or parts of textiles.  We found some gorgeous old copper opium bowls our first night here– arguably the best “score” of the Laos portion of the trip.

The last time Mingei shopped in Luang Prabang, we found lots of rustic jumping folk toys which were missing this time around.  But the women of Luang Prabang have been very busy making something new– hand-stitched children’s books.  We gathered the books from all around the market, settling in front of each stall on the ground to read the simple stories about farm and family life among the Hmong.  “My father is pounding the rice.”  “My brother is riding a horse.”  Each of these descriptions is accompanied by a wonderfully detailed, charming image hand-stitched into the book.  We tried to cull the ones with English errors, expecting that many of our customers might prefer proper modeling to “My sister is picking the pineaple.”  or “My younger is minding the pigs”.  Minding the pigs?  We did wonder about the real authors of  these little storie as the women who made them do not spek any English. There were lots of books to chose from, and we probably picked all that ended “I am a boxer.”  We also skipped the ones that told portions of a fairy tale in which a character is pushed off a cliff and shoots his wife.  Maybe next time.  By the end of the evening we had chosen about 2 dozen books, including one that we will be keeping behind the counter which features two frazzled-looking creatures on the cover of “Travelling in Laos”. After reading dozens and dozens of these books aloud to each other (much to the amusement of their creators) we were really quite punchy, even uproarious, but managed not to push anyone off any cliffs–

Same Same

One of the most popular T-shirts mottoes in the Hmong Night Market here is “Same Same”.  Yesterday when we visited another weaving village, this time south of town, only  one loom of many was strung with lovely cotton in natural and beige thread.  A traditional pattern was begun.  A woman who saw us eyeing the work, came over and demonstrated a few passes, explaining that this piece would take three weeks to finish.  We asked to see her work, expecting more of the same.  She guided us to a pile of weavings in garish colors, machine made of synthetic fibers but in similar design.  ”Same same”, she assured us smiling.  ”No same same”, we replied in unison.  ”Cotton?” we asked hopefully?  ”Lao silk”, she nodded proudly.  A neighbor pulled a synthetic piece from her pile and smiled, “Cotton.  Same same.”  We drifted away back to our tuk tuk.

Today, a new tuk tuk driver dropped us at our guest house and we engaged him for our return trip to the airport tomorrow.  After we asked his name, he politely asked ours.  ”Ann.”  ”Ellen.”  ”Oh!”  He smiled.  ”Same same!”  We smiled, nodded and drifted away.

Hot Hot Hot

There is no denying it– it may be cold back in Atlanta, but it is hot here in Luang Prabang.  The evenings are cool and pleasant, but the afternoons, in the mid-nineties, can be brutal on the dusty shadeless paths outside town along the rivers or on the stone walkways in the city.  Listless tourists sit in front of iced coffees or stumble from wat to wat and then back to their guesthouses.  Tuk tuk drivers sleep in the bit of shade offered by their idle vehicles.

Yesterday, we rose early to see the monks walk through town to collect alms in their begging bowls, the sticky rice and bananas that will sustain them through the day.  They march silently in single file from the wats along the streets where the devout — women mostly, and tourists– wait to drop a little something  in each bowl as they file by.  The poor also wait, and sometimes receive a little bit of something from the monks’ bowls as charity as they pass.  Mostly, the older ones give to the poor.  The tourists buy packets of sticky rice or individual small bananas from street vendors so they can participate in this experience, and train their large camera lenses on the stream on monks as they approach.

Monks on the move– collecting their food for the day in their begging bowls at 6am

After our monk time, visitors file back through the streets to enjoy breakfast in their guesthouses and a bit of cool before the heat begins.  Our guest house is on a small street just off the local fresh market and each trip in or out takes us through piles of peppers, fresh fish splayed on banana leaves, baskets of live ducks, tubs of frogs, bowls of larva, and arrays of vegetables portioned out on plastic sheeting.

The fresh market around the corner from our guest house

We headed off toward a pair of artisan villages over the river where crafts people make hand-made mulberry paper and weave silk.

The long bamboo footbridge across the point where the Mkong and Nam Khan rivers join. Weaving and paper making villages await on the other side.

After crossing the bridge, we walked past a small refreshment stand overlooking the Mekong, through the woods, past a rustic blue spirit house, over a trash dump and down a long, dusty path to the first village.

In the woods above the Mekong

We visited a workshop run by a Lao silk designer and bought several wonderful indigo and golden silk wall hangings from her before proceeding down the road looking for more.

While we found a few lush loosely woven silk scarves at another place, we were disappointed that there was very little to buy.  So much of what we found was machine made and of synthetic fabric and most of the looms were idle.  We had heard from a young American woman working at our guest house that in the last couple of years many cheap imports from China have arrived, pushing out traditional goods, and we saw the evidence here.  So sad.  Even in our last visit here three years ago, we saw many more beautifully made traditional pieces.  The prices of the good work here are quite high, making it challenging for us to find     good work to bring home.

We regret we did not get good photos of these hangings, but we will carry them back and have them at the store by March 8.

We also bought a number of hand-made mulberry pattern lanterns with pressed flowers and leaves that fold up into triangles.  You may remember these from before.    They are lovely hanging on their own or around a low wattage bulb.  These lanterns  also make great gifts.  Because of our baggage allowance for our trip back to Thailand, we will have a limited selection.

After retracing our steps to town, we needed to find some shade, cool drinks, and a a bite to eat.  We chose an attractive little spot on the main road and ordered a Lao Papaya salad “just a little spicy”.  We both pride ourselves on our tolerance and enjoyment of spicy food but know not to ask for local spicy in Thailand or Lao.  We had eaten many versions of Thai green papaya salad and were eager to taste the Lao version.

OMG!!!!!!

Oy and oy boy!

We quickly ordered sticky rice to go with our meal.

Whaaaaa.

Resting in between bites, we worked at our lunch for an hour before waving out little white tissue napkins in defeat.  Here’s what remained of our meal.  The salad was a lot of work.  Tasty, but a lot of work.

Sticky rice and seaweed on the banks of the Nam Khan

As we walked to find a place to have dinner last night in Luang Prabang, Ellen, on her first trip to Laos,  was awed by the views of rices paddies and peach sunset over the Nam Khan, a striking blue house with an orange awning, and the young monks in saffron robes walking in groups of two or three.  Our dinner of sticky rice and fried Mei Kong seaweed  and sesame seeds was perfect for its setting.

Chiang Mai-Part the First

We are sitting at Wawee Coffee on the Ping River killing time until we leave for Luang Prabang.  We haven’t had time to catch you up on our shopping, shopping, shopping.  You really need to hear those lost 3 words as the staff of the guest house here great us as we stagger in laden with bag after bag after bag every day.  They haven’t even seen the mountains of textiles we have left with our driver’s wife to label each day.  Full disclosure, gentle reader, we have blown past our budget at each stop.  You will be pleased.  The laptop is running out of juice, but we will post pictures and more from Laos where the pace will be more relaxed.  Know that we have a gazillion scarves (cotton and silk), BAGS, and lovely carvings old and new.  See ya!

Cabbages and Condoms

One of our favorite restaurants in BKK is Cabbages and Condoms– really delicious food, great cause and quite unusual decor.  Click here to learn more.

Feet Feat

Ohhh… did we walk today?  Today, we explored some old favorite sites and big Buddha figures and then tramped around to discover some new spots in Bangkok.  Tomorrow is the Chatuchak weekend market so we are now resting early with our feet up.

Here’s a detail of the sole of the Reclining Buddha at Wat Po.

Cotton, silk, horn, silver….

Yesterday, we attended an exhibition by Thai Craft, featuring 35 different fair trade artisan groups from all over Thailand, and what a haul!  We found some wonderful hilltribe textile bags, fabulous fine cotton shawls from Hod, wonderful irridescent silks from Ban Napho, buffalo horn bangles, modern hilltribe silver and gorgeous stone and silver jewelry.

Here are a couple detail photos to give you an idea of what’s coming–