The clouds hang low over the grinning mountain that tells us we are headed west. A hazy cityscape spreads herself before our eyes, drowning in the smog that turns thick into cloud as the gaze shifts up. At first the mountain looks weakened by this haze. But the mountain is fierce. The mountain is prominent. The mountain rises from the clouds and never ceases to smile in its navigational duty to the citizens and travelers below. We are headed down the throat of this mountain.

In Chiang Mai, it is not uncommon for temples or stupas to rise from thin air. They occupy venerated plots of land next to contemporary hotels and even louder tourist traps, their aged brick and intricate gold trim allowing curious juxtaposition to the unacquainted wanderer. With originations dating back centuries, the youngest more than double the United States in age, and infinitely in wisdom. Much of what they have seen has been lost to the depths of history, taken to the ground with conquerors and visitors long come and gone. So it is the hills that hold the truest stories of time.

Indeed, the hills cradle the tribes that cook in clay pots over bamboo fires. They remain home to the farmers who tend rice paddies by hand, who carve terraces along their steep faces to add agriculture to the already blooming flora and fauna, and who still use slash and burn as a method of feeding the land. They house the people that look back fervently onto the truths of their ancestors, even as those truths become dated by technology and the evolution of process. It is these people who fight for a life as it is steadily pulled from their hands.

From the perch of our motorbikes, we can see all of this as we pass through towns of shacks and modest storefronts. We are attempting to observe history at her most naked, through obstacles that present themselves at every turn. Like the rest of Thailand, struggle with Western demand has made itself apparent. We can see it in the vendors selling fruits and vegetables of their land, with bottles of Coca-cola right alongside them. We can read it in the English of their signs. We smell in the smoke of their persistence.

But as the roads become steeper and the turns more narrow, the taint begins to lose itself in the density of the trees. Kilometer after kilometer passes us by and we see nothing but long stretches of road and thick timber on either side. We slow down for the turns and speed up when the road straightens, as if to make up for lost time. Or maybe it is for novelty of the thrill.

The air turns cooler on my skin and as we go faster I can start to feel the openness of the hills and the woods. My heart courses adrenaline through the tunnel vision of my eyes, trees now speeding past in a blur and us overtaking the occasional motorist with reckless heed. I want only to go faster, and to be without destination, because destination means end and I barely want to slow down. The wind cuts into my eyes and tears fog my vision, in my mind I know I should slow but instead I howl, and I want the world to hear my howl, to know that I, too, am fierce like the mountain, and I am certain this is what it’s like to be free! It is impossible to look good on a scooter. Surely, no one is ever free.

As we come to our destination – a visit of respect to the mother of the girlfriend of my guide – she jumps up, surprised at our unannounced arrival. We give our gifts of pineapple and she pulls in some chairs through the large garage door that doubles as her living room wall, demanding that we sit until she returns. She goes outside, mounts her motorbike, and in a few minutes she is back bearing gifts of her own.

I am excited to see what she has brought us; Thai hospitality is like no other I have ever experienced. The less they have, the more, it seems, they give. Grinning, she puts her spread out onto a table that is nestled into the corner, and this time it appears it is us who have been duped: one liter of Coca-cola, carefully paired with an unopened package of Lays chips.

The consequences of our disregard, actions we’ve long denied as cultural exploration, have turned themselves around on our thirsty desire to experience a life that is different from our own. And I realize that it is my own sense of adventure contributing to this sweeping black thumb of cultural disparity. In my mind, I vow to more consciously drink in their beautiful culture; it is this and only this that can possibly justify my addiction. And still I can’t help but think, “I guess I’ll have to continue in deeper.”