THE COLD THAI RANGE ACCORDING TO IRIS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I embarked on another opened road, now toward the cold and rainy terrain of Thailand going to Phuket.

I got off  at Phanga, a city after Trang and Krabi.  I took the bus this time and had noticed the most eclectic and multi-faceted structures of Thailand's outback life.

I left Yala while it is still about to wake up with its rattling books and tea kettles; I was sent to a terminal on the way to the bus station.

I boarded a van with space-age interiors. The drivers took turns in driving; one hails the vehicle and without proper introduction, takes the wheel and drives forth. It is like a cycling match. The roads skimmed of factories and industrial facilities. I sat beside an intense guy in blue and yellow shirt. He has a serious entitlement to himself as he reads his projects.  I was dozing off all the time; this is like a train ride on the land that I have already seen in my numerous rail travels. I had noticed an intersection of the train and remembered the "wat" and its cemented elephant. I saw an incredible fish pond along the way, with fishes hopping in arched manner.

I got off at Pattalung, a place where a small but busy section of buses and vans is located.  I had observed that Thais never run out of options to consider when travelling and can be freely nomadic without sacrificing their cultural heritage. They are keen on their future without abandoning the majesty of their origin.

I boarded a single decker bus this time, remnants of the old, plied route in my own province. The one I rode in has a worn-out Panasonic television set with a backturned freshener beside it.  It has a non-functioning audio equipment.  The conductor has eagle fingernails: long and Martial Arts like stuck in hands that never seem to end.  Their ticket dispenser is mile long. They are placed inside a tin rolling pin. It is a curious receptacle of tickets.  Two dolls were swaying on the left of the driver's seat, bouncing off steadily like hoopla women as the travel motioned. In front of these are pictures of a man who looks like the guy I had beaten in Scrabble back in the Manila hood. He is a monk. He is with two men in brass band outfits cum Japanese kimonos with shining samurais. They look like movie posters.  Their pools of eyes soeak of tales, far, wide and deep.

The bus stops that command awe are Trang and Krabi. Trang is home to a sprawling mall Robinson which is bigger than Haad Yai's outlet.While it is clearly urbane at first glance, it houses curious edifices that are inch shades of fairytale materials. Its park is enchanting from the outside: it has rows of trees with big barks and pretty benches.  I saw a ship-structured building as pointed at by my seatmate, a jean-clad woman with haunting eyes and huge mangoes. Her name is impeccable: Aiyada. The building is a hotel. I have also seen a house that is shaped like a bus, a real vehicle structure, erected beautifully in one of the city's corners. In wonderment, I sense some creative juices bent on shouldering the brunt of creative  craftsmanship as dwarfs and giants gleefully peek from  the forest. This is pure marksmanship delivered straight to the bullseye target.

Krabi is specked with fusions, both old and new. Its movie theaters made me recall the Western flicks, all done with celluloid themes in mind. I took a pee in its bus toilet and saw a pair of Caucasian backpackers discussing about Waterloo or so I had placed dialogues just above their heads.

I left Yala at 5:30 in the morning and reached Phanga at 3:00 p.m.

The place is enthralling as it is majestic because of its foggy mountains.  I have come and met personally the setting of my fictional story Meth; its sculptures stuck in wood ranges like the Grand Canyon. It is breathtaking as it is loudly Godly. Is is peace in a world shift.

Perched below these are establishments that bow down and kneel before the Gods of Earth, in hued fogs. Henry Greene's character may be lost here.

Immediately, I beckon the familiarity of scenes with my favorite telley program "Northern Exposure" set in the Alaskan wilds. What is lacking is the frolicking deer, but it does not snow here. Its KFC outlet does not offer gravy and I invented a skit with one of its crewmembers centering around the absence of gravy. This is the reason why in Malaysia, I was made to wait for additional minutes to have my sauce. They truly cook this especially for customers who demand it.

I was fetched by a sister of my sister-in-law at the bus station and headed to her home.

We hopped in a wooden bus this time with the most exquisite interior design inside, if ever one exists in a rustic setting. I was not turned off by its garish display of  faces. The craggy mysteries behind the faces of a king, monks and a lavender garland are all Almodovorian: they are cinematically out of bounds. These people know how to coalesce the past and the future with undying ease.

One store blares: World Vegan, World Peace. This shall turn out as a toplist sentence memoir that I shall lock, forever closeted in my mind. These are English lines that even Webster will approve of with grin.

The other one is penned this way: The Largest Fashion In The Whole Market.

As dark sets along the road, I have touched the sensory connection with the wilds and forests. Everything is mossy green.

Palm oil plants were placed in dug soil and it is agricultural aesthetics at its best. No barren field is left untoiled; everything is green.

I even had the best gift while I screen the imagery: an elephant surprised me at my bus window, uncaged and in its own habitat:, thumping in a moldy soil. With the ponds and farmers.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. I finally arrived as darkness engulfed the place.

This is a town but its biggest and meaningful structure is politically, health-correct. A hospital.

In one day, as is usual in my days, the world is at my fingertips and is revolving in its glorious magnificence.