The ride from Chiang Mai to Pai was a breeze, contrary to my initial apprehensions. The road, slicing through the lush jungle of Northern Thailand, was in good condition. I even saw 18-year-old nubiles on scooters, confidently navigating the many curves in the way to Pai parties. Plus, being in Thailand, there were always pit stops for coffee and yummy food, making the journey enjoyable.
I stayed a few kilometres out of Pai in a place that was eerily deserted. The check-in process was straightforward, though the place had seen better days. Despite its slightly run-down appearance, my room was enormous and offered a stunning view over the misty valley, making it a ghostly retreat.
Pai itself was a backpacker’s paradise, a carnival of humanity. The walking street was a blend of travellers, bars, families, and eateries, each vying for attention in a cacophony of tastes and sounds. The pinnacle of my Pai debauchery was a wild night at a jam-packed jazz bar, where the music flowed as freely as the shots. The air buzzed with electric energy, punctuated by raucous laughter a fittingly anarchic end to my escapades in Pai.
Cave lodge
The next day, I drove headfirst into the wild heart of the jungle to Cave Lodge, a sanctuary for the truly deranged traveller. Nestled next to a Shan village, this legendary outpost was founded in 1984 by Peter, an Aussie with a taste for adventure, and his local Shan wife, Nang.
Lod Cave, the crown jewel of the area, is a beastly natural wonder. I explored its depths with a local guide, though the high water levels kept me from fully witnessing its grandeur. The Lang River roared through the cave, a testament to nature’s scariness . That evening in my little hut in the jungle, I immersed myself in Thai Rescue, a eye-choking series about the Wild Boars soccer team trapped in a cave a few years back. The haunting reality of their ordeal added a visceral layer to my own subterranean escapade.
The following day, armed with Peter’s sketchy verbal directions, I set off to the Burmese border to perhaps see the Shan Army (over the border in Burma). The Shan people, also known as Tai Yai, migrated from Myanmar’s Shan State to Thailand’s Mae Hong Son province in the early 19th century, significantly enriching the region’s cultural tapestry. Despite facing numerous hardships, the Shan have preserved their unique traditions, language, and customs, maintaining a distinct identity that sets them apart from other ethnic groups in Thailand. Their relationship with Thailand is marked by both cultural exchanges and historical ties, as they continue to engage in trade and maintain close connections with their counterparts across the border.
The ride to the border was challenging; the road kept ascending and eventually turned to red-jungle-mud-shit. Predictably, it rained, and I took shelter in a bamboo hut. After the rain subsided for five minutes, I continued along the track, which eventually became a proper road again leading to a Thai checkpoint. Peter had mentioned I could pass through, but I decided to turn back and look for lunch instead.
Mae Hong Son
Mae Hong Son is a Thai working town with little to offer a lonely biker. I checked into a modern hotel next to the lake, which, despite being relatively new, already had an air of modern decline. The frogs were exceptionally loud at night, adding an unexpected soundtrack to my stay.
Dinner at The Moto Café was a simple affair, accompanied by two bottles of Chiang beer. The town itself might not have been bustling with activities, but the surrounding areas offered some remarkable sights. I visited a bamboo bridge and then rode up a never-ending mountain road through dense jungle to Ban Rak Thai, a dire packaged tourist village devoid of instrumentalist tourists. The jungle on the way back was the densest I had ever seen, a living, breathing entity that seemed to envelop the road and me as well.
One of the more intriguing stops was The Palace, an experimental farm in the jungle, one of King Rama’s projects for the Thai people. The blend of agriculture and natural beauty was a testament to a vision for sustainable development.
Mai Seriang
The ride to Mai Seriang was gruelling with rain becoming a constant, nagging companion. Plus, for the first time in my long motorcycle life , I experienced arse pain on a motorcycle. By the time I checked into my hotel, I was wet and aching all over. Dinner was a pork burger, a compromise as the vendor had run out of beef. Exhausted, I returned to my hotel and watched The Tin Mine (2005), a beautiful Thai movie that for a moment, gave me a glimpse of this nations vast inner life.
Now, the only thing standing between me and Chiang Mai is a 200 km stretch of wet jungle road, rain, and arse pain. I’ve got a couple of days to tackle it, so there’s no rush—just me, the open road, and the promise of whatever pork burger lies ahead. The journey back is a cocktail of tight curves, steep climbs, and the kind of scenic vistas that make you question your hard-earned grip on reality.
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