The Chiang Mai Ladies

Posted by Art man on November 6th, 2007 filed in Expat life, People, The North

Chiang Mai is a city of Ladies.

When I say this I’m not referring to the fantasy of many an adolescent facet of male mind where a utopian forest community of scantily clad women waits to be discovered by a wayward trekker, the plot of a thin, yellow-paged drugstore carousel tome ensuing.

Nor do I make such rash claims that every inhabitant of Chaing Mai is female, even though beyond the relative 50/50 split between the sexes, some members of the boy team wish they hit for the other, doing their best to embolden their subconscious of the fairer sex by dressing in a way to petition membership to the pink side.

It is certainly no admission that the collected local female set is of any aristocratic lineage, nor do I use the term in a college-boy-wearing-a-baseball-cap-with-the-brim-titled-to-the-side -below-the-arse-cheek sort of argot.

The claim is not meant to be insidious, invidious, or anything of the ilk. The claim supports an observed phenomenon of social cohesiveness and social hierarchy that revealed itself to me this past Monday:

It’s the Ladies that hold this town together, and without these certain ladies of Chiang Mai, the true heroes and facilitators of our daily lives, we would be doomed and cursed to a life of crapulent decrepitude (you know what the lads around here are like). We may not recognize this tight-knit crew if we weren’t looking, but be sure if they ever went on strike, you’d be f***ed.

The subtle secret society of Ladies lurking just under the civil crust was brought into the light by accident; an instance of happenstance and serendipity accumulated over a long period of unconscious collection and reflection. After the satori-like blast of cool clarity the quiet epiphany revealed it all: Chiang Mai is run by the Ladies. Chiang Mai is a city of Ladies.

Now- bear with me…

To wit:

My Monday begins by putting on a clean pair of underwear (well, usually), freshly laundered (well, ideally) by the dedicated patron of my local Laundromat. Though my morning ablutions certainly do not, my morning ablutions as resident of Chiang Mai certainly should include the lighting of a candle. A flame dedicated to the benevolent aetheric deity that has seen to it that I live in a place where I don’t have to do my own laundry. And the proprietor? A typical specimen; a poster child for the land of smiles. The rows of pearly whites, even in the reflection of memory create a peace in the animate cavity that passes for the contested existence of a soul.

I dawdle downstairs to the kitchen and take a sparkling glass from the shelf. I pause to contemplate my complexion in the gleaming surface of the countertop, lovingly scrubbed to a sheen (my own countenance pale and splotchy in comparison) by my beloved housekeeper who comes every second Sunday to cover my tracks that prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that my personal habits guarantee my unsuitable status for a potential domesticated marriage.

I pour my tea, eat my breakfast, exit the premises and mount my hog, (and by hog I mean scooter), [instead of] the teardrop gas tank Peter Fonda-mobile that writing this piece should give me creative licence to create. I’m just too honest. What can I say?

I rev the engine and the snarling beast (chipmunk) tears out of the driveway leaving skid marks (oil stains) behind.

I stop to get gas and the usual attendant is there, smiling brightly as if a harbinger of the creator of morning itself.

Fill ‘er up, please.

I make my way to my preferred café where they serve my preferred jet-fuel grind of morning brew and house my preferred speed of internet connection. My joe arrives with another toothy grin. Sawadee kaaaaaaaaap.

My day consists of typical typicality and the prerequisite expected expectancy. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Monday that has me so jumpy, or maybe it’s the third cup of aforementioned weapons-grade coffee.

“One more?” she asks.

Fill ‘er up, please.

The afternoon passes as it has usually come to pass, though I sense an itch on my neck that always crops up when the aetheric random begins to cohere into something mentally substantial. I did not know which form it would take this day, but I was suddenly aware that something would reveal itself this aft, perhaps something cathartic, maybe something revelatory- and possibly at anytime.

On the way home, I stopped at the usual stall where I procure a full barbecued chicken for me and the woman I spend a great deal of my time with. She’s coming for dinner and we both like a good deplumed beast for evening repast from time to time. Before I get home to where she is no doubt waiting (yeah yeah, I’m late), I stop in to the local tin shack cum convenience store that hasn’t decided to charge that extra 2 baht for a pack of fags after the tax was added (Oh bless). I ask for two big Heinekens, and they’re already out of the fridge by the time I finish my sentence. Am I predictable or are they earnest?

My Thai is crap, and I never knew I was so predictable.

Upon arrival at the homestead, my lady friend announces she’s feeling extra chillaxed tonight, having just been for a massage at her preferred establishment for the pummeling of muscles and painting of toes. She’s brought the perfect accompaniment for the chicken, a bamboo salad from the street side marketplace just round the way.

I sit with *****, open a beer, pour it into two glasses (perfect to divide a big Heineken in two) and she says, “The bamboo lady made a joke tonight.”

Note: ***** hates when there is too much chili in the bamboo salad.

“She was giving me the salad and she pretended to put a big spoonful of chili in there.”

“Well,” I say, “You know you’re local when the bamboo lady starts making jokes with you.”

The bamboo lady. That’s it.

The key to my tingling sense of portent and harmonic convergence. It has all fallen into place. I toast my girl to her unwittingly pulling the veil from the understanding of the quanta of what holds the Chiang Mai cells together. It’s the Ladies.

I think back over my day, and simultaneously give thanks to the cleaning lady, the laundry lady, the gas lady, the wicked strong-coffee lady, the bbq chicken lady, the beer lady, the massage lady and the bamboo lady.

Without the Ladies, Chiang Mai would implode, and woe to those who imagine the men could simply take over. Next time you visit your own local laundry lady or your preferred beer lady, check around for a man. If he’s there, he’s usually tooling about listlessly in the periphery, knowing damn well who wears the fisherman’s pants in that family.

Ladies of Chiang Mai, chon kaew. I salute you.