Day 8 Chiang Mai

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Renting motor scooters was one of the best things I have done so far! But I have to admit, after hearing all the horror stories about how dangerous they were and physically seeing Paco's mangled leg which he casually labeled as "a bit of road rash", I was a bit sketched out. But once I slammed down that accelerator and began weaving in and out between cars and rickety old trucks as the lush green jungle's of Chaing Mai whizzed passed me, I knew this was a great decision. I careened around blind corners and zipped past entire families sandwiched together on one tiny scooter. This was all done on the left side of the road which to an American meant "the wrong side" this made the ride that much more exciting and dangerous. Let's just say the roundabouts where a bit confusing and hectic. The view from the golden temple of Dui Suthep was spectacular and the gilded spires and roof of the temple were exquisite, but I couldn't stop thinking about getting back on that scooter and heading out to the thrilling chaos that is the road. Finally my wish was granted and the Bristol boys and I decided to ride to this lake called Hoy Tang Toi.

After we reached the summit of the mountains and began our descent down into the valley I was greeted by the lake in the distance. It looked like God had shed a single tear that fell from the sky and dissolved right into the middle of the jungle finally settling down in its own placid purity. Bamboo huts leaning out over the lake lined the shore offering much needed shade from the stifling heat of the Thai noonday sun. We took a seat in one of these huts and a cute old woman who hardly spoke any English gave us menus. A fellow backpacker told me about this local lake delicacy I should try called "jumping shrimp." I didn't see it on the menu, so I asked the old lady "do you have jumping shrimp?" If I would have said "do your serve Mexican jumping beans? Or how about some really stinky Bulgarian cheese and Ukrainian Borscht?" I probably would have received the same answer. The old woman gave me a vacant blank stare and pointed to an item on the menu, a large Chang Beer. Alright. Let's try something different. I decided to try and act it out. I said "alive" really loud and slow. Then I preceded to move my fingers around quickly and said "shrimp" and pretended to eat. Again with the blank stare. Ok, obviously she wan't buying into my pantomime. And retrospectively if the roles were switched and a random foreigner began to shake his fingers wildly around and pretend to eat them, I would probably point the dude to another beer too. So I looked over the menu and noticed the spicy shrimp salad. "At least I will be able to eat shrimp" I thought. When our order arrived my salad came in this little tiny clay pot. Like a teapot with out a handle or a spout. I took a sip from my nice cold Chang Beer, grabbed my chopsticks and opened the lid to grub on some serious fresh shrimp salad. When I opened the lid tiny shrimp jumped, flipped and seemingly flew out of the pot! It was the coolest and most unexpected moment of my dining career. The little fuckers where everywhere! Flipping around all over the bamboo hut. I didn't know what to do, so I just popped one in my mouth and bit down. It was absolutely delicious! Fresh, spicy, sweet and the best part was their shells didn't get stuck in my teeth like popcorn kernels do. It was like eating some crispy chips with a sweet and spicy center. So there I was, sipping a cold Chang Beer feasting on live crustaceans in a bamboo hut over looking a gorgeous lake as the sun began to settle into the jungles of Chaing Mai. Life was good.

The sun was beginning to get low and we were losing light fast. But we still had enough time to scooter around the entirety of the lake before we had to head back to town. The back side of the lake was brilliant. Fishermen were lazily paying attention to their fishing lines as women, children and older men were walking on the dirt road oblivious to the stunning scenery that held me in such awe and fascination. The blue lake was now turning a cobalt grey. The green leaves of the jungle seemed to sparkle with flakes of the blood orange setting sun. And the clouds were swollen with shades of light pinks and violent reds. We gunned down the highway back into town just in time to be caught right in the middle of the work rush traffic. Four very obvious white tourists were stuck in the middle of thousands of bikes, scooters, motorcycles, Tuk-Tuks and cars which were all honking and belching exhaust fumes. Within minutes we were lost. We pulled over to a side ally to discuss our dilemma. "I swear I remember passing buy a shop that had wedding dresses in the window." Dan stated. "Mate, they all have wedding dresses in their damn windows." Louis pointed out. "All we need to do is head down this Dur ha Ti road or what eva the fuck street it is and we should see the sign for the hostel." Stated Mikey. "Sorry dudes, I wasn't paying attention. I am still trying to get used to the left side of the road and roundabout thing." I declared. Finally Mikey took the reins and said "follow me, I think I figured it out." We then spun our scooters around and proceeded to circle the same 8 blocks for 15 minutes. But finally we found the right ally and pulled up to the hostel garden just in time for the start of our goodbye barbecue.

The back courtyard of most hostels are considered for many backpackers to be a travelling university of sorts. Where the most cultured and traveled instruct and coach the inexperienced on the do's and don'ts of each city, country and continent they have traveled. This can be as simple as an explanation on how to say "hello and goodbye, please and thank you" in the local countries language. To the paramount importance of local drinking customs of the instructors home country. Backpackers and fellow travelers swap travel stories riddled with striking similarities of how much they drank and how little they spent on accommodation. Throughout this educational atmosphere strangers become acquaintances, roommates become travel companions and best friends transform into squabbling siblings.

By the middle of the night we had a full rager going. Where 15 minute excursions to the local market to get more alcohol for the party became more a requirement than a regularity. As most good hostel parties usually do, the night became a foggy mess of booming laughs, sexual advances and innuendos accompanied by "cheers" in every accent and language imaginable. It was a night to remember for sure. And as quick as it started, the party began to thin out and settle down as people began to slowly make their pilgrimage back to their bunks. Some with the hope that he or she would wake up with someone they fancied rather than the more predictable and much more regrettable hostel hangover.

The bus tickets are booked and now its official. Next stop Laos.

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