Chapter 11. Lemongrass Stains - Pak Nehm

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As the crow flies, it is slightly over one hundred kilometers from Chiang Khan to Nong Khai. Conventional wisdom tells visitors to leave Chiang Khan and double back through Loei in order to transfer to Udon Thani and onto Nong Khai. The trip is faster and far more comfortable that way. It is a mindboggling six-hour haul through the rolling fields of Issan. No one takes the river route, I am told. If they do, they all have to wait for a bus originating from Leoi at Pak Chom. It would be easier to go to Loei and forego the river route. Maurice took that option; he hasn’t the time to forfeit if and when things inevitably go wrong. I, on the other hand, am proud to say I do not know what day of the week it is.
I took to route 212 east on foot. Surely, I would get a ride to Pak Chom, to where no buses ran from Chiang Khan. Walking past the hospital and short of the turnoff for the rapids, I found a piece of shade and started waving to the passing pickup trucks. Just about every driver waved back, but none pulled over. An hour in, the protection from above did little to suppress the ever-increasing morning heat. Despite my smiles and innocent appearance, I wasn’t getting any bites. A police officer on a moped scolded me and told me to go back to town or continue walking. Dejected, I surrendered and headed back for the bus depot for the next departure to Loei.
With the police officer out of sight, a blue pickup with scaffolding in its bed pulled over to my side. The three Buddhist monks smiled at me. I chimed in before they did. “Are you going to” and I called out all the principal stops along the Mekong and the final destination, “Pak Chom, Sangkhom, Si Chiangmai, Nong Khai?”
“Chai!” the driver nodded. Yes, they were going as far as Pak Chom. Good, I got a start in the right direction. I will be able to handle the rest of the way just like this, even if there is a little difficulty. I jumped into the back and used my pack as a seat. Ten minutes later, my t-shirt was dry and the Mekong came into view.
The Mississippi, Missouri, Rhône, Rhine, Colorado, Ohio, and Danube have lost much of their savage character. They have been tamed to serve the purposes of the populace as valuable resources of irrigation, transport, and drinking water. They are no more than moving lakes that get out of control when warm spring temperatures follow heavy snowfall in winter. The Mekong, thankfully, differs enormously from rivers in Europe and the United States. It runs untamed through Southeast Asia. People here live by its terms, not the other way around.
The calm glassy surface of the Mekong at Chiang Khan does not foretell its behavior further downriver. At certain points, the banks narrow and the current becomes swift, but it never rushes. At others when they broaden, dozens of rocky islands surface around placid pools. Countless island meadows are so big that farmers have planted banana trees and other crops on them. Grassy patches struggle to stay above the water. They give the false appearance that it is possible to step from speck to speck all the way to Laos without getting wet. On the far side, a lonely unpaved road mirrors our multi-layered asphalted one. In comparison, theirs has no guardrails, shoulder of any kind, or motorized traffic. For the entire journey to Pak Chom, I did not remove my eyes from the river and marveled at the wild and whimsical frontier it carves between Laos and Thailand. It is a point in time I will not forget; a superlative rushed to my head: I have ridden in the back of a pickup truck along the Mekong, one of the greatest rivers of the world. Right then and there, getting to Nong Khai was the least of the thoughts passing through my brain. I was so happy not be trapped in the cabin of the pickup.
Monks in Thailand smoke. When no one is looking, they take a swig of whiskey as well. The driver stopped at Bankhoklaonuna for a cigarette break. As he dropped the tailgate for me, I went into my pack and gave the passengers inside the cabin my remaining bottle of water. Later on, the truck stopped at a scenic area just for me. “You”, the monk growled and pointed at the river. “You get photo now.” I complied.
Monks carry almost nothing with them when they travel. One placed a beaded amulet over my neck to thank me and said a prayer as a blessing for my future travels.

Pak Chom is a town centered around a depot, at which goods arrive and are distributed to smaller villages. The best thing you can do in Pak Chom is find out when the next bus or pickup is leaving and wait. I did not want to wait. The soldier on the platform of the depot indicated on his watch that the next scheduled bus, truck, or piece of livestock for Nong Khai was three o’clock. I bent over to read his watch, as I carry no timepiece on my person. The watch read ten fifteen. I concluded there is NO way I am lounging for the next several hours among this dirty market and ear-splitting Thai pop tunes. I walked out of the depot and headed east. I have been lucky enough so far. Someone else will come by.
I trudged up a hill and walked only so far as the blaring music was just out of earshot. I waved at every truck and car. They waved back; many smiled. None pulled over. By eleven, it was too hot when I neared the police station. I had to turn back. In Pak Chom was a place to sit and there was fresh food and cold water.
As in Chiang Khan, I headed back a presumed failure. Yet, I gave it a go. On cue, a white pickup pulled over and a woman a few years my senior smiled at me. “Where you go?” I fired off the destinations in succession. Since arriving in Thailand, this was the greatest language and culture barrier I had faced.
“Ahh”, she replied. Sangkhom no.” But she brought the palms of her hands together almost to where they were touching. “Sangkhom, OK?”
I interpreted this as she could get me close to Sangkhom, a good chunk of distance covered. The back of the truck was swept and clean. I could stretch out and enjoy the ride.
The humming of the engine dropped thirty minutes into the ride and she pulled over at a penniless pastoral settlement. She pointed up a dirt street and said, “Home.” She would not be taking me to Sangkhom.
I thanked her and she left me by the only market in the village of Pak Nehm. The ladies who tended the store pay moderate attention to me; they had seen Westerners before, but none who wanted to leave as quickly as I did. I camped in front of the store under a thin wicker awning to keep in the shade. I was out of the street but with oncoming traffic in view. The few trucks that passed whizzed by with great ferocity. None gave me a second chance. The youngest of the market ladies swept the floor behind me. She found my predicament to her liking. I was a novelty and broke her routine. Village life is Thailand is full of routines.
Taking my challenge to get out of Pak Nehm to the next level, I scavenged behind the store and grabbed an empty cardboard box. With my pocket knife, I sliced off a flap, found a marker, and went to a man who had just arrived on a moped. A few extras had gathered around to see what the excitement was all about. I was the excitement. There was marker on a nearby table. I said to the man in a yellow shirt, “Can you write “Sangkhom, big for me?” I stretched by hands out wide.
He knew exactly what I wanted, produced a great sign in Thai script, and handed it to me. Perfect. This will get me out of here. My driver returned with her cell phone extended to me. I had a phone call? Out here? Was it Mom wondering if I’ll be home in time for dinner? “My brother. He English good for you.” She put the phone to my cheek.
“Hello?”
“Hello”, the voice came back on the other end. “Why you in Pak Nehm with my sister?”
Good question, pal. I have no good answer and almost chuckled. I entertained the thought that he might be angry or want to resolve a conflict of some sort. I played it calmly and explained. The tone became much friendlier. I related to him the series of events and that I wanted to get to Nong Khai.
“We help you.” The reception was poor and the only connection I had to the outside world in English was breaking up on me. No! “There is a bus….Can I speak with sister, please?” I handed the phone back to her.
The conversation went back between the three of us four separate times. During all of them, I just thought it easier to put the sign up in the front of passing traffic. But my driver-cum-personal assistant had torn up the sign, having decided she knew a better way. Her brother said there would be a bus at twelve-thirty.
No, I thought. Someone in Pak Chom would have told me about it.
While we waited, she told me her name and wrote in down in English. I hoped there was a misspelling. “My name is Pawn”, she over-enunciated for me. Then I took a peek at the spelling of her name she had written in my notebook. Her script was very clear. There could be no misunderstandings. There it was: P-O-R-N, Porn.
“Wait, maybe it is this way…” And I placed an “h” between the “p” and “o”. No, she said. An “e” at the end? No, she had it right the first time and was insistent. How unfortunate. I did not have the heart to tell her what her name meant in English. Instinctively, I addressed her in the second person than by name. I’d rather have my child be referred to as “Small Pox” before that designation.
Po-, no, she, put my pack inside the market and took me by the hand down an alley. “We eat.” My God, where? Even worse, what? We found a home front with one table and three chairs. The men occupying each immediately got up for the two of us and stood while they ate their noodle soup. I looked around. Here I was, in Pak Nehm. Issan is the poorest region in Thailand, a country anchored in one of the poorest corners of the earth.
A chubby lady poured me pork soup with noodles. I gobbled it up and then she dumped more into my bowl. The more I resisted, the more food she put before me. The next round of nourishment was freshly sliced vegetables. Her pretty teenage daughter turned her head to me so I could acknowledge her smile. She said hello. So did about seven other boys.
Porn paid for lunch before I could make a move for my cash. I then took in my surroundings. I saw hopelessness decorated in smiles. Besides the market and food stand, Pak Nehm doesn’t even register a so what to anyone. For those who dare to take the river route to Nong Khai so they can boast about it would never dream of stopping here to even stretch their legs. To spend an hour here would be a punishment; a night surely would be unheard of. For Issan standards, Pak Nehm is the bottom of the barrel.
I tried to buy her an ice-cream and Porn sheepishly declined. Her brother called back. There would be no bus but the three-thirty from Pak Chom. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Porn coerced me across the street from the market and said my pack could remain there. No one would take it. This is Issan, she said. No problem. The third house on the right is where she stays with family when she does not live with her three children in Bangkok. The young cousins slid over and one asked me to take a seat on the porch. For the rest of the afternoon, conversation and charades ebbed and surged. About seven family members and other neighbors gathered around. It was Saturday. My arrival was met with much curiosity, the event of the day, if not the week. Villagers had seen Westerners before, of course. But no one ever spent time, willingly or not, in Pak Nehm. When with family, Porn resides in a one room timber hutch of a domicile. Parts of its exterior walls are of bamboo. Some of the strains are intertwined, but not impervious insects. Light from the smelly and muddy ground comes through the floorboards. Essentially it is a one-chamber house although the family has put up fiberglass dividers and arranged tall cabinets to give the feel of more than one room. The toilet is an outhouse, nothing more than a raw, cinder block sauna of gagging odor. I had to use it twice and kicked the scrawny chickens out of the way to get to the door. After the second rush to relieve the rumbling discomfort within, I popped another Cipro. It wasn’t so much to quell the bacteria, rather I’d do anything not to have to enter the outhouse again.
The family property, like every other, is a scattered mess of trash, corn husks, and nut shells. Another cousin, none too pretty, sifts dried chili peppers. They are not for sale, but will go into soups and rice dishes. A cold cola arrives at my side and Porn pays a boy for the delivery. Then her mother serves me tropical fruit. The generosity and innocence of Pak Nehm masks the overwhelming sadness of the conditions here. A tractor roars by and all on the flat bed take cover from the sun in an umbrella designed for a child. Another neighbor on a moped arrives with a lovely young girl in his lap. It struck me immediately: People here ride in wonderful vehicles. The scooter is a brand new Honda, with all the blinking lights and whistles. The family owns a gargantuan new Toyota pickup.
It is parked in front of the outhouse and huge ceramic urns. The urns store drinking water.
The gas station to my left is no more than a booth where you’d buy a stuffed animal at a state fair. The pumps work manually and are filled by a fuel truck that makes regular deliveries.
The murmur of the conversation among the family quickened and Porn came over to me. “My family like you.” You stay here at night. Please.” I had bought the children some drinks earlier and given them all lapel pins. Two young ladies from the village walked by and the whole family brought them over for my inspection. “They nice. You like? You like now Pak Nehm.” Perhaps that could keep me here, they figured. The thought of the bus rushing out of town came back me.
I had the time, but not the inclination. I did the wai.
“Krap pun krap, mai krap.” Is all I could articulate. Thank you very much, but no. “I will go to Nong Khai.” Thankfully no one was offended.
One man grabbed my bag and another my daypack. At three twenty-four, the bus from Loei appeared on the horizon. Three men waved it down and it crawled forward at a snail’s pace. I walked alongside and stepped up. I screamed thank you. Porn waved at me, “You come see Pak Nehm. You like here.” They handed me my belongings as the bus rolled forward.
“Perhaps. Thank you!” I will not come back. I knew this. But I have little heart compared to those in Pak Nehm who opened theirs to me.
In the forty-five seconds the bus was in the village, it never came to a complete stop. Pak Nehm has yet to merit that status.

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Photos

View From Pickup Truck
The road hugs the Mekong...

Through Scaffoliding of Pickup
A monk was driving me downstream...

The Outskirts of Pak Nehm
I am taking the photo in the downtown area...

To and From Work...
Tractor passes by....

Family Home
Nothing too complicated...