Up and stumbling, I wake from weightless slumber and a knock on my door. It is 4.27 am and my companions are avidly campaigning for a scooter ride to the mountains to see the sunrise. I could sleep all day in my peaceful palace-cave, made dark by heavy curtains blocking the sun and a high-rise view. For fear of missing something unforgettable, I accept.
The streets are dark yet busy; market stallholders are setting up for the day. The early air is cool and pleasant. It is hard to imagine in just a few hours, the streets will be smoldering in the raw heat of Thailand. Only the bravest of foreigners will be seen contently folded in a Starbucks lounge, double-shot mocha in hand and a laptop in sight.
Racing down the highway involves a great deal of squinting—I have no goggles and the wind is thick and dry, but I can see the blue mountain silhouettes where we are headed.
For 600 years this place has stayed the same, regardless of the ever-expanding conglomerate at the feet of its resting place.Lawson Hull
The ascent is dreamy.
After fueling up for the equivalent of four Australian dollars and setting our bearings straight, we leave the bewildering maze of Chiang Mai.
I feel, if I close my eyes, I could be sailing any winding mountain range on earth—the Alps or the Rockies. The rainforest air is cleansing despite intermittent air pockets fumed by dirty diesel trucks rumbling up the way.
Not yet to the peak, we make it to a lookout where the city spreads thousands of buildings below. We wait, only to be disenchanted—a tall ridge divides our view of the sunrise. Bothered, we take some blurry throwaway photographs and continue upwards.
Still early—the top is a peaceful and placid tourist niche. The locals are readying their handmade goods for the hopeful day of business ahead. Orange-robed Buddhist monks slowly wander by.
After strolling a while we discover a famous sanctuary nearby. We pay a dollar to look inside the sacred and eerie courtyard of the Wat Phra That Doi Suthep. Layered gold are the shrines of this holy place. The statues and murals are breathtaking.
After staggering up some stairs, we approach a sea of golden-glazed tiles covering a platform that opens to an expanse much greater than my digital-driven eyes can gather. A belated sunrise awaits us here. It is a magnificent panorama from the highlands to the outer suburbs; the elegant towers of the city and beyond, where the mountains cross back and forth, forever into the distance.
I glance back upon the golden domes. To me, they resemble the shiny heads of robed deities. For 600 years this place has stayed the same, regardless of the ever-expanding conglomerate at the feet of its resting place.
No, I do not ponder life or its often unanswerable questions.
We leave, not making a sound.
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