Atop the elephant’s back, I gripped the howdah so tightly my knuckles turned white. Susan sat in front of me, legs squeezed against the giant animal’s neck. The path through the forest was narrow and the hillside steep and winding. Smoke irritated my nostrils as the mahout waved burning grass behind us to keep the elephant moving uphill. I hoped I wouldn’t fall off.
It was 1982. Susan and I had been staying at a friend’s apartment in Bangkok while exploring the temples, markets and museums. Now it was time to leave the crowds, noise and pollution to see the countryside.
Susan’s tall, thin frame contrasted with my short, curvy body, her joyful can-do-anything optimism with my cautious realism. We had bonded in Upper Volta, where we worked in the same remote northern region, she for Save the Children and I for USAID.
“Let’s go to Chiang Mai!” Susan suggested. Chiang Mai was a major city in northern Thailand with a fabulous art market, and served as a launching point for travel to the villages of the indigenous hill tribes.
“Sure, it will be great to explore more of Thailand,” I responded, beginning to worry about how we would get there and where we would stay.
I relaxed as we rode the train, surrounded by in the historical luxury of British colonial times. We dined at tables dressed in white cloth and adorned with china, silver and indigo-colored orchids. This trip will be just splendid, I thought.
We found a comfortable $2 a night guesthouse in Chiang Mai, where we met travelers from around the world. Two blond, burly Australian men bought us bottles of Singha and anointed us WT’s (World Travelers) in honor of our adventures in Africa, Europe, Greece and now, Thailand.
“You should hire a guide to take you to see the hill tribes.”
We agreed, and that is how I ended up on an elephant.
I was always ready for adventure, but not without some trepidation. Visions of what might go wrong haunted me. Not Susan. She was as carefree as a puppy chasing a butterfly. As we embarked very early the next morning on a four-hour bus ride to the far north town of Chiang Rai, Susan chatted with excitement, while I fought off visions of bus accidents and nonexistent medical care. We’d recklessly signed on to this trip without knowing the details. At Chiang Rai, we met a driver who took us to the Mekong River, where we were invited into a small motorized pirogue. I remember the hum of the engine and marveling that we were on a river I recognized only from Vietnam War reports. The Mekong was a muddy brown, but I loved being on the water and began to relax as our boat wound through small hills carpeted with greenery.
After an hour or so, we pulled up next to a traditional Thai home on stilts. Soon a man appeared (it was only later that I learned he was called a mahout) guiding a lumbering elephant alongside the house. I’d never seen an elephant this close and backed away quickly as she swung her trunk around. We were instructed to go up narrow steps to a porch to mount the elephant. I obeyed, remembering how I’d once fallen off a horse, but too embarrassed to refuse. I grabbed the elephant’s leathery ears and threw my leg up onto her neck before scooching backwards up into the howdah.
At the time I felt both fearful and excited, buoyed by Susan’s enthusiasm. It’s only now I that I’m struck by how really dangerous this adventure was. We were at the remote Thai/Laos border with a guide we’d only just met, having signed no papers or contracts,
heading into the hills on an elephant.
After dismounting the elephant four hours later, everyone laughed as my arms floated upward, reacting to my long death grip on the howdah. Susan and I collapsed on the grass in the center of the Karen village to the amusement of the locals. A short while later, a village man brought a water buffalo over to us, offering cheap rides. After much taunting from Susan, I climbed on and rode around the village to loud cheers. This was much easier than riding an elephant.
At the end of the day, we hiked to the highest village on the mountain. There, an elderly woman from the Karen tribe, dressed in a colorful hand woven sarong, brought us a bowl of rice, pork and vegetables. She gave us a wrinkled, toothless smile as we thanked her.
The village bustled with evening chores and conversation. We weaved around pigs and chickens roaming the rocky village paths and folks greeted us kindly.
As night fell, we were shown to our “lodgings”—a mat on the open air second floor of a house on stilts above a pigpen. We were offered a pipe filled with opium.
“What do you think?” I asked Susan. “How dangerous is this?”
“There’s lots of opium use around here” she replied. “We are in The Golden Triangle, after all. I guess a small amount won’t kill us. Besides, the stench from below is powerful.”
Susan and I smoked the pipe. The grunting of the pigs converted to music, lulling us into a trance. I cared nothing about sounds, smells or safety. That night I experienced a deeper sense of relaxation than I’ve ever known. We awakened refreshed in the early morning, ready for the long hike back to the road.
Now, at age 74, I look back in awe at this exotic adventure. How thankful I am to Susan for her boldness and encouragement. And how grateful I am that we didn’t drown, weren’t ripped off, didn’t fall off the elephant, remained parasite free and never smoked opium again. Every time I think of this trip, my heart swells with gratitude to know I have lived a full and rich life.