STEP OUT OF YOUR WORLD AND INTO BIJOUX, WHERE EVERYTHING HAS A STORY

ARTICLES FROM AFAR:

Bhaktapur, Nepal
Dogs of Bali
Fire
Wayan Kulit

THE NIGHT MARKET
Chiang Mai, Thailand

In 1991, in the midst of the Gulf War, I took my first trip to Asia. Bypassing the noisy, smelly confusion of Bangkok, we headed straight for the city of Chiang Mai, on the banks of the Ping River in northern Thailand. With our trusty Lonely Planet guide in hand, we found a guesthouse on a narrow soi off the Thae Pae Road. One of the first things we went to see was the famous Night Market. Our map was vague and the streets were confusing, but this was no time to be timid. Timid people stay at home. We ventured out, flashlight in pocket, slathered with mosquito repellent, and ready for adventure. Heading in the general direction of the river, down the Thae Pae Road, we turned off just the other side of a foul open sewer spanned by a small bridge. Lit with strings of tiny 20-watt light bulbs, hardly brighter than Christmas tree lights, the Night Market shimmered like a mirage on a lot that used to be the royal burial ground. Booth after booth, row upon row of stalls sold an incredible variety of items. I wandered aimlessly; unable to choose even one thing from the thousands offered. Laughter and chatter, people calling to one another, flirting and singing filled the air. Shopgirls leaned out of their booths, elbows propped on piles of hand-embroidered fabric remnants full of the dust and smoke of years of use. Softly they called to me in what little English they had, "You look, Madam? Best price, looking free." Booths festooned with garlands of beads, green and red white hearts,Peking glass, Chinese trade beads, cobalt blue tubes, and sherpa coral bedazzled me. One stall was stacked with hand-woven cottons in every color imaginable. Colorful rolls of sturdy hemp fabric dyed a rainbow of brilliant hues were piled on a cloth spread on the ground, tended by a tiny hill tribe woman with a clay pipe dangling from her red betel stained mouth. There were stalls filled with cheap printed batiks, stalls with wooden carvings, with pottery, with antique brasses and bronzes, with thangkas from Tibet and Nepal, silver beads and earrings, cheap tourist clothing, pirated tapes and videos. I was quickly overwhelmed, so much so that when I passed a small raised platform with huge lions guarding it's four corners, I sat down on the steps and burst into tears. I had waited a lifetime to travel, to see the sun glinting from the top of golden temples, to see water buffalo and brilliant birds. How was I to hold on to this magick?
It was like the world's largest garage sale filled with all the exotic items that I would ever want to buy. Piles and piles of very fine, exquisite embroideries, lengths of beautiful handwoven fabrics assaulted me at every turn. In fact, there were so many wonderful things that my senses were quickly overloaded and after a couple of trips to the market, these items that at first seemed so exotic became mundane. It is hard to remember when you walk in the midst of so much beauty, that these are not items we live with daily in the West, nor will they look so ordinary once they leave this country.

Returning just 5 years later, the Night Market I knew was gone. The funky, low-wattage conglomeration of stalls and booths that filled the old burial ground was completely flattened. Gone were the food carts surrounding a square of wooden tables at the back of the lot. In place of the irregular and funky market was a huge modern cement and glass structure devoid of any semblance of the exotic, forbidden or mysterious atmosphere that was so compelling to me before. The stalls had been replaced with clean, well lit shops and the prices reflected this modernism.

But it wasn't completely gone. If you went down to the basement of the new Night Market, you could still find some of the chaos and confusion. The stalls down there were less organized, closer together, some even looked the same, except for the cement floor that replaced the hard-packed dirt of the outdoor market.

I have traveled to Asia several times now. I have become a good bargainer and my eye for the rare and unusual is keener now. I do not hesitate to buy when I see something I think is special. It will certainly not be there on my next visit. I know this for a fact. The sterling silver beads I bargained an hour for at the Night Market are just not available, nor are the beautiful jackets made from the recycled skirts of Akha Hill Tribe women. Pieces of embroidery, hanks of beads, soft worn Laotian silks are still available but no longer at the prices I paid in those first years, nor is their quality as fine.

So look to these pages for treasures. Some will be from Thailand and Laos, some from Bali, some from Nepal and some from garage sales and second-hand shops or the trunks of old dancers and singers, travelers and vagabonds, gypsies and magicians. In the future we may bring you Ilam tea from the slopes of the Himalayas, butter bowls from Tibet, earrings from Bodhnath, and be assured, they will not be the same things you see in the stalls at a street fair. Each item has its own story; a special history. We have personally collected each thing, not necessarily for sale, but for itself, because each one exudes a smell or a touch that evokes a memory and opens the door to a story….