Small Town Mountain

I'm a small town boy. Might live in a city now, but I ain't from there. No sir.

My memories started in a community called Blueberry Creek, just off the highway that runs between Castlegar and Trail. Maybe 1000 people lived in the town; we didn't even have a grocery store or, after my grade 1 year, a school of any description. When my family moved, it was to the slightly larger centre of Cranbrook then to the northern metropolis of Prince George, roughly 75,000 people at the time.

I remember the sense of community from those years. There weren't so many restaurants or clubs or bars, so my parents would have friends over for parties, or they would have us, kids and all. We would also go to one of the many lakes, or tobogganing in the winter. People got to know each other. They had to because they lived in the same small town together. They were neighbours.

My fond memories of little communities like those ones is probably the reason I liked the town of Pai, tucked into the folded mountains northwest of Chiang Mai.

I liked the town despite the drive up to it. The road curved and wound, yet we drove in a straight line for most of the time. Our driver laid rubber on hairpin turns, caused pieces of the bus to shake and squeal. People sitting together constantly knocked legs, knees and arms. Hands got sore from holding on.

"Jesus!" That was me. A silver sedan going the other way and passing on the right only just managed to slip back into its own lane before we got there.

Concrete beneath my toes had never felt so nice as it did at the end of that ride.

Equilibrium restored, I found a small town around me. The town centre lacked street lights. A walk one day got me outside the city limits in five minutes and many of the lanes to get from here to there were not big enough for cars to pass. One of the bridges that took visitors out to the surrounding countryside was made of bamboo and thatch, for pedestrians only.

The pace of life was slower too. Maybe the people knew that nothing would happen in any great hurry but would happen all the same. Most shops were mostly empty most of the time. Clerks looked over when I strolled in and wondered if they should get up - they didn't. There were no tuk-tuks, no people shouting to get my attention. They waited for me to come to them and sometimes I did.

The lack of constant activity, though, meant that the town had to have great scenery to keep visitors busy during the day and Pai did. A dirt path took me past fields of farmers working away and a stream burbling next to me. The trees on the hill off to my right were frosted red on top of green. Sunlight crested the ridge and brightened everything. It was something from a Wordsworth poem, that scene.

The intended destination for my walk - a waterfall, going to which involved walking across a small river several times, climbing fences and rocks and mingling with grazing cows - did not happen. My boots did not fancy getting soaked.

Instead, I wandered up to the ancient town of Vieng Nur. It was sleepy little village of one main street and the occasional yappy dog. A town like that one is never about the place itself: there wasn't much to see except little shops and locals sitting in the sun. A town like that one is about the walk past mountains and rivers and forests on the way. After finding a bite to eat, I headed for home through that same scenery.

Back in Pai, I saw that the streets had gotten busier - vendors seemed to save their energies for tourists who had finished their day trips. People strolled up and down the main street and bought shish kabobs, cheap noodles and stickers that said Hippies Smell. Women from local hill tribes, their mouths stained red from betel nut, sold colourful fabric hats and bags. Portable lamps caught smoke wafting into the night and bargains going down.

A smaller town, a slower life, nothing to do but go outside: reminders of childhood are always nice. That said, Pai is a beautiful place no matter who you are or what you remember.