Thailand - Chiang Mai to Akha Hill House

Laurie Weed's Portfolio Travel Writing Asia Blog Index

Asia Update 4: Thailand – Chiang Mai to Akha Hill House

August 2002

From Bangkok we catch a train north to Chiang Mai, a bustling little town known for its colorful markets and wats of every shape and size. The biggest draw, though, as indicated by the obscene number of tour companies advertising it, is the "Hill Tribe Trekking.” In this appalling arrangement, they drag you and 20 other hapless voyeurs through a collection of impoverished minority villages. The tour agents collect hefty fees for delivering this "authentic experience," complete with bamboo rafts and elephants, while the hill tribes are allowed to eke out a few baht by selling sodas and handicrafts -- or worse, posing for photographs in their colorful native dress. Even the most oblivious tourists return from these treks looking slightly embarrassed. Craig and I opt for a visit to the Tribal Arts Museum instead.

With time running out on our Thai visas, we book tickets to Vietnam and then head north to Chiang Rai to spend our last weekend in the country. The 4-hour bus ride is at once terrifying (the driver exhibits serious psychological problems,) and astoundingly lovely: nothing but brilliant, green hills for hours. After that, Chiang Rai is a bit disappointing. I'm determined not to waste our last hours in Thailand in this bland and dirty town, so I scan the guidebook and find an oblique reference to an interesting day-trip. In addition to the popular boat tours down the Koh River, a local boat service also runs upriver. The first stop is a tired, touristy pier next to a Karen Tribe village, but just across the river is a natural hot spring and from there, a "1-hour walk" will put us at a "simple but comfortable" guesthouse in the hills, operated by a local Akha tribe. Akha Hill House would turn out to be much more than I expected, in every way.

According to the book, transportation from Akha House back to Chiang Rai is available. This is a key point, because in the next 24 hours we have tickets on the last available train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok, where plane tickets await for the only flight into Vietnam that week. All of this transportation is booked and paid for, and our tourist visas expire on the day we fly out, so delays cannot be accommodated.

The "boat service" turns out to be a balsa wood canoe, which I refuse to board until a moldy life jacket is rounded up. This frail craft is built for five people at the most, yet it's about to carry 10 (plus two small children,) against the swift current of the Koh River after heavy rains. The one other foreign passenger is a Swiss student, Mathieu, who rode in on our bus from Chiang Mai. He's unsure how far upriver he'll go; he's just looking to do some hiking, "without the rafts and elephants.” The boat rides so low in the water that walls of spray rise around us on both sides as the driver dodges around the debris clogging the waterway. Every time I think I've experienced the worst transportation in Asia, I learn how limited my imagination really is.

Most of the passengers unload at the Karen Village and for a few extra baht, the driver makes the unscheduled stop at the hot spring. Waving goodbye to Mathieu, we happily disembark. The spring is deserted and there are no signs or trail markers to guide us to the venerable Akha House. A food stand nearby is a stop for trekking groups, so Craig asks an incoming trail guide for directions. He gestures vaguely toward a neglected road. We're both in sandals, woefully unprepared for hiking, and our packs are uselessly overstuffed with the clean laundry we picked up on the way to the bus station, but we're expecting an easy walk. Very shortly, the paved road turns into dirt, washed out in parts by the rain. Within 15 minutes, the dirt road angles sharply uphill, still unmarked. Occasionally, a local passes us up and nods affirmatively to our query, "Akha House?"

We slog on through a couple of villages (i.e., clusters of shacks and a few cows.) The trail is now a narrow footpath, obscured by foliage and frequently sinking into muck, but the mountains are gorgeous and it's refreshing to be in a place with few other visitors. More than an hour after starting out, we're still in the middle of nowhere and unsure if we're going the right way. Every time we encounter a local, we repeat our obtuse, "Akha House?" charade. They keep pointing upward so we continue on, although the trail is now abysmal. After a particularly hot and miserable stretch, we find ourselves on a grassy plateau in the middle of a huge, silent valley. The trail has disappeared. There are no buildings or people in sight, it's midday in the tropics, we are lost...and, most disturbing of all, this was MY idea.

We circle the plateau dumbly a few times, hoping for a sign. In desperation, we follow some sort of cow trail, leading straight uphill through the brush. Thankfully, it turns into a narrow footpath again, leading us further upward through the forest. We duck under low-hanging branches and jump over the occasional mud hole, then suddenly the foliage opens up again and an enormous female buffalo glowers at us, completely blocking the path.

Since there's no easy way around her, we sit down at a safe distance from the long, sharp horns and wait, overlooking the valley we just hiked out of. As we watch, a guy with a backpack bursts out of the brush below and finds himself trail-less on the grassy plateau. He circles uncertainly, checks his map, and circles again. Although the comedy of this re-enactment is not lost on us, we eventually get his attention and wave him in the right direction. He's blazing his way up the hill when the buffalo finally ambles off into the trees with her calf, and we grab our chance to move on.

Nearly two hours after starting out, we stumble upon an anonymous cluster of huts that turns out to be the Akha village. As we're picking our way carefully down the hill, a sweaty Mathieu catches up -- he was the other lost tourist we waved down from the plateau. Once we're all settled into the guesthouse (and I use the term so very loosely here,) we sit down for dinner with Mathieu and the two other guests. We're joined by Apae, the chief of the village, who tells us all about the tribe and their Student Project in excellent English.

Originally from Tibet, the tribe migrated through Burma and settled on this hill about 15 years ago. Like other hill tribes, they are refugees who cannot become Thai citizens, and must fend for themselves in the mountains as best they can. As the elected Chief, Apae's job is to lead the 92-person tribe and to run the Student Project, his special pride and joy. The Akha kids can attend grades 1-6 at the Thai school in the next village for minimal cost, but the Secondary School (grades 7-12) is on a private system and almost 2 hours away in Chiang Rai. For tuition, transportation, books, accommodation on nights they can't get home, food, uniforms, and miscellaneous costs, it runs about 25,000 baht ($625 USD) to educate one child. For most hill tribes, cash income is scarce and higher education is an unattainable goal. However, the indomitable Apae and his people have created their own non-profit organization, complete with secured bank account and donor t-shirts. Private donations and sponsorships supplement the income from the guesthouse and guide services, and all of their kids are being sent to school. Some have to attend the less expensive weekend school, but overall they are succeeding. One girl is now going on to university to become a teacher.

Apae himself has never been to school. He learned English on his own, speaks well enough to present the project to potential donors, and has even traveled to Japan on a sponsored fundraising trip. He refers to every child in the village as "my student," and quizzes them on their studies. Impressed by this man and his mission, I'm glad we came here in spite of the Outward Bound adventure. I'm still glad in the morning, although we barely slept in the bamboo hut, clinging to the side of the hill on stilts like a two-legged bug fighting a strong wind.

Apae agreed to drive us back to Chiang Rai in his pickup. He makes the trip almost every day anyway, to chauffeur the students to school and conduct other tribe business. At 9 a.m. sharp, we follow him down the hill and pile into the back of the tribe's only vehicle with three other Akha men and some propane tanks that need refilling. Four high school girls get into the cab with Apae.

The dirt road starts out bumpy, but nearly dry. Around the first bend, it dissolves into a slippery maze of 12-inch mud ruts at a sharp angle to the mountain. Apae takes a run at it with the aging, rear-wheel drive Toyota and we nearly slide into the ravine. He stops, we all pile out, and a flurry of action follows involving shovels, tire chains, and an ancient wheel jack. I stand out of the way by the side of the road. The students continue reading, placidly, in the jumpseat. Apae directs the pushing and pulling efforts, expertly placing chains and angling wheels. It looks hopeless to me, but clearly this man plans to force this improbable vehicle over the mountain on sheer determination if he has to -- he's not the Chief for nothing.

After a lot of reconfiguring, Apae waves us back into the truck. Evidently, we're the dead weight. We wrap our arms around the homemade rail, wedge our feet against the rolling propane tanks, and turn pale as the engine screams, mud flies, clouds of smoke billow out behind us and the truck begins a perilous zigzag up the hill. I'm convinced that we're going to die: either the truck will roll, we'll slide off into the ravine, or one of us will bounce down too hard on a propane tank and end it all quickly in a dramatic ball of fire. The other Akha tribesmen flash nervous grins at us, the students remain oddly calm, and Ironman Apae crouches grimly over the wheel, stopping for nothing.

By some miracle, the truck makes it to the top and we all burst out cheering in our respective languages. Relief is short-lived, because after bone-cracking along for a few minutes on dry land, Apae guns the engine for another big, uphill mudslide. Somehow, this isn't what I imagined when I read, "transportation is available.” I may never learn.

After a few more hair-raising hills, we reach the main road and I slump down in the back of the truck, shaking and covered with mud. On the upside, I'm so drained by the near-death experience on the mountain that I barely notice the homicidal highway traffic. We arrive at the bus station on time and uninjured, say goodbye to the Akha and promise to send an update to the Lonely Planet. Once we're making good time back to Chiang Mai the terror starts to subside and I realize, whaddaya know, we just went trekking and had an Authentic Hill Tribe Experience.