New Farm

I loitered in Chang Mai for almost a week; wandering between one-dollar-eateries, indulging in the occasional banana shake, and repeatedly sitting down for a few beers with girls that always, frustratingly, turned out to be nineteen, before I finally took the advice of my friend and constant inspiration (Micah) and contacted Daruna Farm.  “The Captain” emailed me back right away saying he had abundant room and work.  I carefully reviewed my finances, trying to figure out how my visa run (required between the 21^st and the 24^th) and the Full Moon Party (Ko Pagnan on the 23^rd) worked into the equation.  I finally turned to Microsoft Excel, taking a few moments to chart my expenses in four scenarios, and decided that my most frugal course of action was to leave for the farm immediately, do the visa run to Cambodia, and decide later about The FMP. 

I had some difficulty getting here.  I missed my train connection, tried to inform The Captain by phone but got, “The number is not available.”, ended up on a packed local bus along with 6 giggly American college students, still couldn’t reach The Captain, couldn’t convince the conductor that I sincerely wanted to get off in Bang Phra, was forced to backtrack by tuk-tuk, became convinced I’d written down the wrong phone number, found the train station, walked around asking people for the white guy who has a farm, gave up and hitched a free ride back to the main road, found an internet café where I established that I had written the number correctly, and received a reply email from The Captain that he had given me the wrong number and he was on his way. 

The farm is pleasant, even if it’s not as idyllic as the last one.  There are buffalos and chickens and although I’m the only WWOOFer at the moment, The Captain is a great deal more talkative than my previous host, so the solitude is not overwhelming.  This morning I stuffed myself with a huge breakfast then spent the next two hours in a nuanced debate of the practical applications of US foreign policy.  I worked for a couple of hours digging ditches, and then took a three-hour lunch break, once again ending up chatting with The Captain.  The man likes to take his time with a story, making sure I have every possible detail.  The exposition always meanders along until he has all but convinced me that it that has nothing to do with the stated topic, but he always gets there eventually.  “I’ve had two run-ins with the police.” He told me at lunch. “The first one was in 1987.  I was walking down by the river and saw some logs that looked like they had been gnawed by beavers, and I was surprised because I didn’t think there were beavers that close to the city.  Then I was walking there another day and I actually saw the beaver….”  I smiled a little; thinking of Grandpa Simpson, (“I was wearing an onion on my belt…which was the style at the time.”) then I leaned back and waited.  This kind of conversational inefficiency irks me at times, as does The Captain’s intermittent tendency to portray himself heroically, but those are minor complaints.  And it’s good to be back on a farm.