A new sky: A pilgrimage in memory of my father – and his belief in the transformative power of tea

An old black cat slept snugly in its chair in the Yunnan-themed, street-facing restaurant on Mae Salong’s main road. It was oblivious to the gentle exhortations of two middle-aged women, who asked it to make way for three hungry travellers, excited about the halal fare served there. Beneath a picture of the Kaaba, photos of tantalising soups, noodles, and salads were hung.

The food was not quite Thai, not quite Burmese, certainly Yunnan-inspired, yet very familiar to the three of us. The neighbouring shop played Chinese pop music, and the signs around us were written in English, Thai and Chinese. On the street outside the restaurant, two bystanders spoke in accented Thai, telling us the cat was not going to move, so we ought to find another table.

We had driven two hours from Chiang Dao in northern Thailand in search of tea, supposedly the Assamica variety, grown in the region since the 1980s. My Thai-Australian friends had been here before and they remembered the road being rougher than the smooth, tarred highway we were on.

I, on the other hand, kept marvelling at the landscape, which reminded me of Northeast India. “We could be driving anywhere between Nagaland and upper Assam, you know,” I repeated.

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