Harry Nicolaides' Weekly Column

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Love Under the Tamarind Tree

A serendipitous turn from the main road, between the forested mountain township of Prae and the sweeping outskirts of Chiang Rai, at an unmarked junction, the road spills into a narrow, unmade track glowing with a burning orange dust. Golden corn stalks, ablaze with colour, like fiery torches, mark the periphery of green and yellow rice paddy fields. Water flows slowly through narrow, man-made canals to verdant pastures. Open grasslands stretch towards the horizon. In the west, a mountain range overhangs the lowlands like an imposing wall. Great swathes of land below are inter-woven like an immense tapestry. There are rich bands of colour through the fields reflecting the changing seasons. The road pours into the landscape like a river. Nestled in the undulating hills is a small village. The road weaves and winds, crisscrossing with hundreds of minor tributaries but only one road burns with orange dust – the road to Nongpakjig.

Dorothy followed a yellow-brick road to the land of Oz. Alice fell down a hole and emerged in wonderland. James Hilton wrote his way into Shangri La in Lost Horizon. Homer sung of Elysian fields. Peter Pan flew to Never Never land. The mythical town of Brigadoon with all its charming inhabitants and fairytale cottages emerges, according to Irish folklore, once every one thousand years only to vanish again by sunset. Blessed are the few who fall through the cracks of the visceral world as we know it into the enchanted, fairytale landscape of their dreams. I found such a mysterious opening somewhere north of the past and south of the future. It is not on any known map. Yet it exists. Some say, if you look closely enough, it can be seen in the latitude and longitude lines on the palm of your hand.

Nongpakjig is a small village north-west of Chiang Rai. Like a small flower on the side of the road, this quaint little township is bursting with colour and life. Situated beside a narrow canal it would be easy to drive straight past it. However, if you decided to cross the small footbridge over the canal you will be pleasantly surprised. Large sprawling trees camouflage the town and its houses from the road. Only the sunstruck, glowing teakwood beams on homes rising like tree houses reveal a community exists beyond the twighlight shadows and shifting branches. The laughter of children and the dry fuel-spluttering crackle of an old motorcycle also belie the presence of inhabitants. If you follow the laughter of unseen children you will discover the enchantment of Nongpakjig.

My first visit to Nongpakjig was a sentimental one. It is where my girlfriend Jintana lives. Well, in fact, it is where she was born, went to school and matured as a person. Her family lives in a cavernous wooden house, a dog-leg turn away from the unmade road. The house is set amongst a thicket of trees and shrubs. A rickety picket fence, that is so old it looks like it grew out of the ground, marks the boundary of her family property. At the entrance to the winding driveway are flowers bursting in profusion with colour and fragrance. Jintana planted the flowers when she was a little girl. She sprinkled the seeds into the rich soil. As a result, love grew in her heart.

The family house is open to a large natural courtyard. Another semi-detached structure is where rice is stored for the long months after harvest. Nearby is a water-well made from rough-hewn mountain rocks. It has a wooden, overarching hoist and a peaked, stone-tiled gable. It is hemmed by tussocks of grass. An old bullock cart languishes under a Tamarind tree, overgrown with creeping weeds and grass. Sunlight spills through the canopy above, dappling the ground with medallions of gold. The green foliage of undergrowth and shrubbery bristles with teeming insect life. Brilliantly-coloured butterflies zig-zag through honeycombed tree hollows while dragonflies dart above. The winking glint of tremulous leaves beckons. The water-well is full of dreams. A whispering wind creeps out of the well. Turn around and close your eyes. Cast your stone and make a wish. I did.

We arrived at night after a long, arduous road trip across Thailand from Phuket. We planned to stay in a hotel in town but I couldn’t resist the spontaneous joy of taking the road to Jintana’s home for a nocturnal and nostalgic peep at her family homestead. She reeled with surprise as the car jostled like a colt towards the faint, lantern-lights of her house. This was her return home after ten years of being away. While she had made periodic visits home before, this journey represented the end of one phase of her life and the beginning of another. Coming to the canal, the lights from her house were much clearer. We stopped momentarily, looked at each other and then I pushed the gear stick into first gear and released the clutch. The car jolted forward and we crossed the footbridge. Jintana grasped my arm and whined with bittersweet anticipation. We turned into the driveway and rolled into the open courtyard where her family and friends were gathered.

Jintana lept out of the car and sung her greeting to a chorus of endearing, heartfelt sighs and smiles. Her brothers embraced her while she moved towards her aged mother who was seated. Jintana breathed slowly before she stepped forward to hug her mother. Her father emerged from inside and his smile widened He tilted his head and looked at Jintana. She looked at him and smiled. Her cousins, nephews, and nieces clamoured around her and she was turned and tickled by laughter and love in a merry-go-round of family fun. Jintana called to me as I walked towards the gathering and introduced me to her father. Summoning my willpower I raised my arm and extended it to him. He took my hand and shook it with ambivalence. This was the first time we had met, after all. I was introduced in turn to Jintana’s mother, brothers and relatives. We gathered like moths under the lights outside her house and laughed and lingered until late.

The next morning Jintana took me on the back of a motorbike to see the surrounding area. We meandered through the labyrinthine paths and tracks of her village passing many beautifully crafted, wooden houses elevated on stilts. Children played while elderly men and women rocked in reclining chairs. Occasionally a dog raced up beside the motorcycle only to lose interest when we reached the next street. It seems Jintana was known by all the inhabitants of Nongpakjig as person after person, young and old, stopped to say hello. The motorbike bounced over the rocky surface of the unmade road. We road passed the village market consisting of several vegetable and dried goods vendors under makeshift stalls held together with bamboo, rope and tin. An ancient temple was half-concealed by a majestic tree with branches heavy with years and roots bursting and buckling out of the ground like a gigantic serpent. In fact, the entire village gave me that feeling – the brevity of life crumbling like temple ruins before the immensity of time.

We returned to Jintana’s house where her father had invited a village priest to prepare a coming home ceremony. Steeped in ritual, the occasion was attended by Jintana, her niece and me. The three of us were connected by a long piece of unbroken string. The string was looped around our wrists and then held by the priest. A dusty old book was opened and an ancient incantation was murmured by the priest while we sat solemnly and listened. The priest presented an offering of food and water to the gods in a token gesture of deference. The priest then took a handful of rice and dropped a portion onto a banana leaf. Jintana’s father counted the grains and the priest wrote the figure into his book. The whole ritual was inscrutable to me. I imagined the old men where bargaining with the fates and hoped their negotiations where going favourably!

The day ended around a roaring fire in the open courtyard of Jintana’s house with relatives, friends and people passing bye joining in the revelry. Grilled chicken and sticky rice was prepared and served while a moonshine whisky, distilled by local ne’er-do-wells and bought for five Baht a cup by workmen returning from a long days work. As a special visitor I was the subject of many toasts and salutations and was expected to make a few myself. The moonshine whisky was positively shattering! Skyrockets were ignited for the amusement of the children under a glittering, star-spangled firmament. I looked into Jintana’s eyes and saw that, here, in Nongpakjig, under the Tamarind tree, wishes do come true.

Harry Nicolaides
November, 2004

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