What I remember most from our last day in Chiang Dao is the roosters. Hundreds of them, mostly plastic, some real. Arrayed in a circle around a monument. In a line to another monument. Adorning a fake chicken coop. Big ones. Small ones. One wearing a lei and staring a half-crazed plastic rooster stare at my camera. I look at my pictures and see fake rooster after fake rooster, a surreal high-school yearbook for plastic chickens.

We ended up here, at what I later learned is a monument to King Nerasurin, when we went on an informal tour arranged by our hotel owner. And by tour, I mean that she suggested a waterfall and market, and, apparently, the rooster monument. She called a songthaew and off we went, with a Chinese grandmother and her 18 year old Jehovah’s witness grand-daughter. Off we went to the Tuesday market. We saw live eels and a pig’s head on a table, mixed in with your usual elephant pants and knock-off clothes. I bought a hat. Grandma wanted to know why we were in Chang Dao and not China. Poor choices, I told her (*mostly* in jest).