Who Scared Off the Holiday Spirit?

It's hard to plan ahead when one isn't surrounded by the holiday spirit as one is back in the U.S.A. For instance, I just purchased Christmas cards today. Why so late? Well, because I had no idea that Christmas had snuck up on me and was only 2 weeks away. AND to top it all off, they need to be sent like, yesterday in order to get to the U.S. in time and not to be New Years cards...or Valentines Day cards for that matter. I guess I'll draw hearts on them just in case. It can't hurt to be cautious.

The grips of holiday consumerism is only just starting to seep in and poke it's very expensive head around the corner here. Although I did find myself mindlessly fingering trinkets and holding clothes I'd "never in a million years" dream of even putting on my body in Central Festival, the local mall, today. I must have wasted 2 hours of my day just meandering around aimlessly looking for something to, um, look at. I had an interest in uninteresting things and glanced at price tags as if I was pondering if I could buy the item. And all this in a person who, for the most part (unless I have a pocket full of cash), is an in and out shopper.

I now realize that the 2 hours of floating around was just sacrifice for that nostalgic feeling of home and the holiday spirit. Christmas tunes like Jingle Bell Rock, and We Wish You a Merry Christmas were quietly playing under the non-suspecting ears of shoppers just trying to avoid the heat. I was snapping my fingers to the beat of Frosty the Snowman through a bra sale and moping to Blue Christmas in the shoe department. Myself, I originally went in to fix my Ipod. A true mission. But was taken in by the woeful melodies of seasonal favourites. Christmas trees and their accompanying accoutrement dangled, twinkling. Garlands and Santa hats were suffocating turtlenecked mannequins with snowflake embroidered scarves.

And it was as if I was in any mall.
Anywhere.
Possibly even home.

Time really does move quickly here. That could be why I blinked, and it's Christmas. Maybe because there is so much to do and one isn't holed up from the cold, layered under blankets and gripping a mug of soup. The sun is shining when one wakes up and the beach is always beckoning. There are no significant seasons like winter and its opposite, summer. It's just... nice, maybe raining sometimes, but even that isn't significant enough to base a time period around for the most part, although we do refer to it as the wet season, or the newly appointed p.c. name of "the green season".

I do miss big, fat chunks of snow landing on my nose and coating my eyelashes as I walk. I miss sticking my tongue out and twirling, instant snowball fights among strangers, coming inside and shaking a cloud of snow onto the floor, hot cocoa like my Aunt Kay use to make on the gas stove with the iron kettle, going sliding with friends and pulling donuts in empty parking lots. I don't miss being cold though, I HATE being cold.

Sand angels just aren't the same, and quite honestly, get a little uncomfortable after a while. Mudball fights are fun, but lack the impact of a hardened and well-sculpted ball of snow. Mudmen crumble and torrential rain can land on your nose and eyelashes, but you might as well be swimming.

So I bought my Buddhist inspired Christmas cards, down in the basement of the mall, tucked away in some back corner after realizing that I had been in the mall for 2 hours. Maybe I missed that holiday shopping feeling: that giddy, cartwheeling-stomach feeling of knowing you're getting something great for someone else. The smiles and cheerful mood that people seem to be in (before the mad rush to finish shopping). Hopeful children. Knowing that you will be surrounded by family and friends. But, that last feeling vanished as I exited the swinging doors of the mall, the short, uniformed security guard saluting me as he is required to do. The heat hit me and I was back in Phuket. Another Christmas abroad.

Then I got to thinking about last year: Erik and I sitting on the beach, two recliners under a colourful umbrella, swimsuits and Santa hats. We had a picnic on the beach. No, a FEAST on the beach. We ate chicken with our fingers and washed them off in the salty sea. We drank champagne and opened presents while the sun shone down on us and the waves crashed against the white sand. The white sand... we did have a white Christmas after all. And a memory so unmistakably special, it will be forever etched in our minds.

Will Christmas come and go, insignificantly in my daily life because I'm not reminded of it as I would be in America? I don't have a television, so Charlie Brown's Christmas Special won't be playing. There's no need to put on boats and snow pants (nor a long-sleeved shirt for that matter). The only thing resembling Christmas lights on houses are the "girly bars (prostitution bars)" with their flickering bulbs, but that's everyday, every night. Perhaps I'll revisit the mall. If only for a short time, just to catch a tune, to hear a classic representation of that holiest of holiday seasons. Who knows, I may even see a Thai Santa.

Twisted Firestarter

When I can, I shoot home for lunch. My house is only about 8 minutes from my office and sometimes it's just nice to be at home to munch a meal as opposed to sitting in a mini restaurant alone. But it sure does enlighten you on what goes on when you are away.

I took the right onto my street, cruising at a normal speed. In front of me, roughly where the entrance to my house should be, was a small child about 4 years old. As I got closer I realized that indeed, he was in front of my gate. He was facing my house and looked up guiltily as I swooped in to park my car -- my eyes were on him. What was he doing in front of my house? Is my house gate locked? Yes, it is...

As I was collecting my things to exit my vehicle, I kept my gaze in him. I was curious! I noticed he had something in his hand. What was it? He was turning his shoulder in to hide it from me, but as he began scratching something he became entranced and forgot to hide what he was doing.

A small orange glow burst into fire and he flicked the flaming match toward where he now stood, the garbage. Wait a minute... this kid was flicking burning matches at my house? Talk about letting kids play with fire! He must have forgotten I was in my car, staring in bewilderment at this complete clash of western child rearing. He started lighting the matches one after the other, shooting them into the brush that surrounds my garbage can. Oh, this was too much.

"Mai chai." I called to him as I stepped out of my car. He smirked back at me, not sure what to do at this farang telling him no. I gave him my sternness teacher face and "oh-no-you-don't" face and watched him for a minute. He smirk and turned his shoulder back in, lit another and flung it.

"Tam arai? Mai tam tee nee. Bpai, bpai!" I said to him, no getting a bit concerned for the neighbourhood in general. We got a pyro on our hands. This is the health video we used to watch in elementary school about NOT playing with fire. This was the X-Files episode of how the crazed pyromaniac kid began. Where was his mother? Does he have a mother?

I stood staring him down, now honestly concerned with the welfare of my neighbourhood. The match book will eventually run out, I know. But will he get another? Then thoughts of him graduating to hurting animals shot into my mind. Where's Chompoo? I scooped her up as she lazily made her way to my ankle. The kid continued to send flaming matches towards the grass as he casually meandered down the road.

Good thing I came home for lunch...

Bugs

I've been startled awake in the night by a flitting metallic flutter twice now. Once, sleeping on my back, I felt it on my stomach. Blearily, I swiped at it, and much to my surprise a torrent of crunchy sounds, like long nails itching dry skin, made its way up my torso. Much more awake, I lept up from my comfortable position and frantically pulled back the blanket, wiping the sheets. Of course, it was pitch dark so my imagination took charge: a giant spider, small rodent...cockroach? By this time my partner had been roused and was just flipping on the light switch in the heat of annoyance when my right hand made contact. It felt like crumpled paper, and I automatically withdrew my hand in disgust and fear- hey, I didn't know.

With lights on, we caught a glimpse of the bugger, er, bug. A cockroach, the size of a tube of lipstick was scurrying under my night table. My brow furrowed and my skin crawled. It had been IN MY BED! Under my covers! The most sacred, secure, personal place possible. It had snuggled up against me in it's own dirty way. Did it lay eggs in my belly button? Will I be infested with cockroach babies? Is there a colony under my sheets? The horrors flashed in my minds eye, and in an almost trance I sat pondering these disgusting possibilities while my partner was searching around for something to whack it with.

"Don't just sit there! Find something to get it with. Where did it go? Molly? Molly!" I shook the thoughts away and timidly peeked over the side of the bed. I felt violated. Utterly violated by an ancient insect deemed to have survived throughout history's most tragic events. I held myself and looked at Erik with pleading eyes, if there was ever a time to play the female roll, it was now. Things like "icky" and "yucky" flew out of my mouth with such ease in an air of helplessness. I was recovering from the ordeal when the night table was pushed to one side and the invader exposed. Oh, this bastard was going down!

I sat on my knees perched on the side of the bed looking down as Erik's arm raised in preparation. The cockroach, golden-brown, went for the underneath of the bed and with a triumphant WHAP! Erik's arm had brought the newspaper of fury down. We exchanged glances and he carefully looked under the flattened paper. All was still, the dark body not moving. We breathed a sigh of relief and, just as Erik went to get up, the damn thing made way towards a shaded corner. The newspaper was re-rolled and the battle began again. I cheered on from the sidelines, loathing the dirty bugger, wishing for its death and demise. I had been roached for crying out loud! My hero, my newspaper armed hero! Hoo-rah for the gladiator. May he bring the beast down!

After repeated WHAPS, a fury of local news, the body lay still. With a smooth motion, Erik lifted the contorted body onto the paper and went to toss it out. I sat a while, trying to ignore the feeling. I had to let it go, I couldn't dwell on it because then I would never sleep. It's that weird phenomena that, if you do find, say, a bug in your bed, even if you get that one bug out and fail to find anymore bugs, you can still feel their little legs all over you, or chomping on you, depending on the species one is dealing with.

I couldn't let it win. I had to shake it off, play cool. Get some darn sleep. I crawled back into bed with my defender after shutting off the light and forced my mind elsewhere. In Thailand you have to, because in reality, there probably is a cockroach party going on, and you don't WANT to know it.


The second encounter:

My family was visiting and, being good hosts, Erik and I gave up our bed so that our guests would be comfortable. I didn't mind sleeping on the floor in my living room. Erik even saw it "as an adventure- like camping". The nights went by fine. Sleeping was comfortable and waking up even easier. Until one night, I was having an unusually hard time falling asleep. I tossed and turned for a while and eventually faded off into dreamland. It wasn't long before I felt something on my ear -- that sensitive spot behind it where your hairline ends and a small soft patch of skin is left -- I was half asleep, half dreaming it, when I went to actually itch the area.

The metallic contact and flitting of wings shot me awake. Another one! Behind my ear! It had only been a month or so since my last violation from the insect world and I was again grossed out beyond all means. But, I had to breath and take it in stride. I had felt the body fall from the area behind my ear, tumbling down my chest to my pillow. I casually wiped the area, felt no body, and tried to convince myself it was a dream. Otherwise, I would have never fallen back asleep. Was it a cricket? Another cockroach? I shook the thought away. One can't be certain in the black of night. Just let it roll off you, roll over, and play cool.

And that's just night time visits of what I know of....

Adaptations to Life in SE Asia

There are many things that I have adapted to since moving abroad to this area of the world. As a Westerner, you are raised with certain "standards" in your living quarters, food preparations, quality, service, privacy etc...almost a culture of sterile cleanliness. (Please pass the hand sanitizer) It's difficult to change the preconcieved notions of right and wrong, or in better terms- correct ways of doing things.

Is there a "correct way" to do things? My Father would say that there is a correct way to mop the floor. My Boss would say there is a correct way to organize my computer. My college friends would say that there is a correct way to drink tequilla. But is there a correct way to live? Now, don't take that heavy-handed. It's more of a live in the cultural aspect than lifestyle and judgement calls.

For instance, is it unacceptable to eat dog? Westerners say a unanimous "Hell yes!" While Vietnamese lick their chops while saying "Unacceptable, you mean decadent." Is it acceptable to have sex with a pre-pubesent girl? Some cultures embrace it while we Westerners cringe at the thought, Child Protective Services dialed in the phone's keypad.

One has to accept that differences exist; there is a great big world out there, filled with cultural juxtapositions. Who are we to cast judgements?

I thought I'd do a little series on:

ADAPTATIONS OF A TRAVELER
-adaptations in Thailand

#1. Knarly meat:

As a child I would sit at the kitchen table performing surgery on my pork chop. If even the slightest vein of fat resided in my medialian of pork - it had to go. Fat on the edge of a steak? Puh-lease. I'll nibble on the meaty heart of the slab leaving a 1/2 inch border to the slimy lard. Biting into fat was as bad as getting a swirly in the toilet, but even more repulsive. The idea of chewing fat- the chewy nub secreting the foul juices into your mouth, resisting all attempts to swallow and forget - had to be promptly removed and tucked into a napkin (or fed to the awaiting cat).

Here, I've learned to happily suck the meat off bones, ignoring tendons and dark areas of meat (before deemed off-limits) as I chew and enjoy. I casually remove chunks of cartiledge, bristled shards of bones, and uncompromising pieces of fat without blinking an eye. Normalcy of accepted dining practices of removing these obtrusive objects and putting them on your plate mid-munch has helped greatly. No one scowls at you as you pull out the rib of a fish- good thing you pulled out that rib of that fish!

Honestly, the "quality" (I put it in quotes because it is referring to the accepted quality of my culture and not of others) is completely different. If I was as picky as I once was, I don't think I could eat. Why, I'd starve! Hunger forces you to change standards, and all standards are different across the globe.

Next... bugs.

Apologies

I know, I know! It's been waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long. But it's been a very hectic few, er month or so.

First off, the freakin mother cat kit-napped the kittens to the neighbor's yard. We haven't heard peep nor squeal in weeks. The mystery remains. Did she pull a demented mother move? Does she suffer from post-pardum depression? It all remains in the vast unknown. All we know is that she isn't welcome if she snuffed out the little bumpkins.

Second, I have a new job. No longer will I shape the minds of youths. (for the time being anyway) I have landed my *potential* dream job. I'm Associate Editor for a magazine that covers the Asian-Pacific region. Now, if I can just get some travel incorporated in that! It's going well, for the most part. I get business cards and the whole she-bang.

So, as you can see I've been consumed of late. I haven't forgotten you. I just had other things that took precedance. So, for a peace offering I give you my (soon to be published) first on assignment piece I wrote on a club in Patong, Phuket for the magazine in which I am staff writer for:

(and remember dear readers, if you write comments- I will write more)

Seduction Discotheque
Molly F. McGill

The night was ripe with mischief. Delinquent youths were already dropping to the ashen concrete in their novice haze. Didn’t they know that Patong didn’t really heat up until midnight? If one wants to survive Patong-the party haven of Phuket- one needs to know three things: How to hold their liquor, how to budget, and where to go.

The first two were well achieved when I found myself among what seemed like inebriated gazelles bounding down Patong’s Bangla Road. Being the low season the streets were noticeably less packed, one just had to avoid a collision with the frolicking cervine. It made for easy walking- without worrying of losing the pack unlike those blurring nights of high season jollies. To my left soi’s opened up between two guardian bars at the entrance (like Peter only a lot less interested in your sins and a bit more interested in your money) waiting to swallow you into the belly of belligerence. I grimaced and kept walking. This night called for something else.

A little more than half way up the debaucherous road I felt a magnetic pull to the side off Rat-U-Thit Road. A red carpet, plush and hinting at a bit of class among the riff-raff galumphing down the street, lured me towards it. I couldn’t resist and was instantly drawn into the crimson current. Cresting the top of the stairs, two men in black wai’ed me as they opened the large glass doors, I flashed a million dollar smile as the invisible paparazzi snapped coy photos of me to print the next day.

I had entered the loins of Seduction Discothèque, the pulsating beats causing my body to throb as I made my way through the smiling crowd. Ten bartenders, split between front and back bars, all aimed to please. They asked for my order with genuine concern and eagerness, “Would you like a drink? We take very good care of customer at Seduction.” I couldn’t help but stifle a girlish giggle as the suave gentlemen spun and mixed my drink. I bet you do.

An illuminated column of orange neon that shelved the night’s spirits drew my eyes upward to the second floor. Shimmering, a massive disco ball dangled from the rafters. Like a barracuda attracted to shiny objects I instantly wanted to get closer, but to my dismay the second floor was not in use this night. That heralds more fortuitous nights of bigger crowds. Slipping into my mind’s eye I pictured the masses wrapped around the banisters looking down towards the main dance floor. Gents would be picking out the lucky lady and the ladies would be playing hard to get to the ogling gents. This created an ableing environment for passion to ignite at the aptly named Seduction Disco.

Dancing along the catwalks towards the second bar in the back, I made a detour onto the dance floor as one of the three DJ’s spun a hot track. I bobbed to the music in front of the booth where the two local DJ’s and the guest DJ from Finland were flipping records. Making my way onto the dance floor, I sassily stepped onto the center stage and took full advantage of the 360 degree view. Scanning the crowd my eye caught both seducer and the seduced in action. Leaning into each other they tried to harness each others’ desires while keeping a cool demeanor. Lights whorled, music thumped and the crowd increased as the small hand of my watch crept around. It was past midnight and the dropped prices in drinks tempted the need for another.

The music had pulled the outer edges of the club onto the main floor in a frenzied dance. Steam was rising and bodies gyrated in curious mating rituals of yore. Feeling euphoric I returned to the bar with my empty glass and winked at my bartender. Seduction Disco was still heating up as my men in black opened the door for me to leave. I flashed that million dollar smile again and sashayed down the carpeted lane.

The night went without a hitch. I had held my own in Patong once again and had money still left in my pocket for a late night, I mean, morning, run to Seven-Eleven for some chips. It’s also… all about knowing where to go.

God Save The Kits

It was a split second decision. It had been drizzling for the past half hour as we sat absent-mindedly typing away at the local internet cafe and leaving now, we wondered if we should shoot home before driving the distance to the movie theatre in the rain.
“Yeah, might as well. I want to grab my sweatshirt in case the movie theatre is cold. I’m always cold in the movies.” I spat remembering the air-conditioned chill as we rounded the circle towards home.
“Alright, then let’s grab a bite.” Erik answered as we cruised.

Pulling up to our driveway gate Erik stopped at the edge of the gutter that ran past our house and down the street. Our adopted stray cat, Skivvels or Skivvels McNiblet formally, had given birth the night before under our driveway where the gutter, a forty foot dark and dank tunnel, ran. She had decided to give birth right smack dab in the middle, with a whooping twenty feet on either side to reach her birthing nest. Unable to: A) fit underneath ourselves B) reach or C) coax the mother and her kittens out we had left her to her natural maternal instincts figuring that it was as safe a place as any and if she really needed to, she’d move the kittens up to our house. As we leaned over the side and looked into the gutter the day’s rain had begun to spill down the road and right through where the new mother and her kits were making home.

“Do you think they are okay?” I asked with a deep concern for the lives of the little balls of fluff.
“I don’t know.” Erik answered as he made his way to the other side of the gutter where it once again opened up for viewing. “The water isn’t running through to this side, so it must be draining into something.”
“Oh, good.” and with that I unlatched the door and proceeded to snatch my sweatshirt ready to high-tail it off to the movies. On my way out I remembered how hungry Erik was and went to the kitchen to quickly grab him a snack he could eat on the way. I was reaching for a bag of crackers when Erik’s voice slammed me with panic.

“Molly! Come here!” He yelled to me a little too loud to be unimportant.
“What? What is it?” I scrambled out the door, my purple plastic poncho catching on the latch. He was at the gateway and heading towards the upper opening of the gutter.
“We need to do something! I can hear them.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked lowering myself to my stomach and peering into the narrow tube. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and I strained to make out Skivvels body against the trickling water. That is when I heard the cries. Like deflating squeaky toys they chirped in panic. Skivvel’s eyes caught light and shone in my direction. I could barely make out her hovering figure against the gray light that shone through the other end forty feet away. I squinted to see if I could locate the kittens, I thought I saw some movement at her feet, just lolling little bodies flopping against the rising water. The water was a torrent now, charging into the gutter and streaming towards the terrified mother and her babes. It had risen even in those few moments that I leaned over the side and it was getting deeper with the accumulated run-off.

“Skivvels, Skivvels.” I called her name to coax her out of the dark tunnel. I clucked and called to her as she began a deep meow, her eyes glowing like green and yellow disks in the dark. She was frozen. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to leave her kittens, but she knew that they couldn’t stay either. My God, they’re going to drown if they don’t get out. The water is too high. The cries were heart wrenching.

She sat in the middle with a little body hanging from her mouth, the silouete falling against the dimming light at the other end. Trying to ease her out, we continued to call. Suddenly, I could see against the light that she was trotting toward the other end, tripping in the water and sloshing down the tunnel with the body stiff in her mouth.

“Erik! She’s going to the other side! Go! Go!”
“She has a kitten!” He called to me.
“Take it.” I coached as I made my way over. I leaned down and reached out for the kitten and Skivvels plopped the soaked body into my palm and immediately headed back into the stream. I ran with the delicate body mewing and crying in my hand to a cardboard box we had set up outside on our porch. It was alive, thank God. I wrapped the kitten in some fabric and headed back to Skivvels. Erik was still crouching at the mouth calling to Skivvels when I came rearing back.

“Molly, you call to her. She likes your voice.” I dropped to the ground and stuck my head into the opening.
“Skivvels!” I cried over the high pitched yowling of terror. I could see her fumbling with the kittens. “Skivvels! Come on baby, get another one.” At this moment we realized that we had no idea how many she had. She could have two or she could have six, we weren’t sure. But she made her way towards the light where she dropped another one into my outstretched hands. Delivering another kitten to the box I wrapped it close to its kin and headed back out. Erik was just scooping up another, a little black and white body that squealed with confusion and alarm. It clung to his wrapped wrist, its little nails catching the fabric and holding on with all of its might.
She came with another in her mouth, its limp body swaying with her scrambling steps. I plucked the kitten from her as she headed back into the darkness, her fur matted with wetness. I dropped the other off, four. I went back to the tunnel where Skivvels was roaming, calling out to her young in confusion.

“Are there anymore?” I called to Erik at the other end of the gutter.
“I don’t know.”
“She must be looking for another. See if one got washed down with the water. Go down to the end and look.” A steady stream had begun to flush through the gutter and was so rapid now I feared that we might have lost one in the stream. I called to Skivvels as she criss-crossed to either end, her green eyes wide and wild. She called up to me, shivering and confused.

“You got anymore Skivs? Any more babies? Are you just looking for your babes? Come on. I’ll show you where your babies are. Good girl, good momma.” I purred to her as I picked her up and held her under my arm. I brought her to the box where she circled her kittens and licked their heads. Erik brought me a towel and I took the three black and white ones into my lap to dry them as she licked the gray tiger kitten clean. Rolling over on her side I put the three kittens on the towel close to her to nurse. Purring loudly she stared at us bewildered. I don’t think she knew quite what had happened, but she knew that they were finally all safe.

If we wouldn’t have decided, in that split second to stop home, I don’t think there would be these cute little fluff balls on our porch right now. I’d like to believe that her maternal instincts would have kicked in and she would have realized that she needed to move her children, but she was just too wild with fright when we looked into that dark tunnel. The screaming of terrified kittens and the panic of danger was too much. If we weren’t there to have her swing the fragile bodies into our hands, I really don’t know.

But, alas. All is well and now we have a grateful mother and her four wriggling babies to attend to. Anyone want a cat?

What Type of Wat is this? Wat did you say?

I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that we had just stumbled onto the set of a horror movie. Making our way through the skeletal remains of a palm field, its haggard appearance giving us a foreshadowing of danger, we emerged onto the grounds of a dilapidated wat (Buddist temple).

Being aware of the customs and proper wat etiquette, I was apprehensive to enter in my shoulder bearing tank top and shorts. But, then again, what could one expect if the wat was nestled into the side of a limestone cliff in the Thai rain forest? Dress pants and silk shirts? Hardly.

Erik and I carefully tiptoed along the worn grass path. In the distance a monk crossed and we froze like rabbits in the hunt as the orange robed man disappeared behind another building. Well, it’s definitely occupied, we decided. The rest of his family slowly made their way to us as we scanned the grounds. I was feeling like Leonardo Dicapprio in The Beach where he finds himself in a field of Marijuana and quickly learns that he shouldn’t be there as bullets whiz by his head and he has to make a mad dash to safety. Why was it so quiet here?

The sound of water behind us grabbed our attention and from inside a small wooden shack began the drizzle of a shower. Outside, draped on the banister, hung a bright orange robe. A monk was showering. How rude would it be if he opened the door and saw five Farang (foreigners) staring back at him? I can’t even imagine how many monk rules of behavior that would break- to see a naked monk! We quickened our step, coming between two buildings. I grabbed at Erik’s shirt as he moved ahead and hoarsely whispered, “A sarcophagus.” My eyes spread wide in surprise. I had never seen a casket just sitting out at a monastery. The decorative details glimmered in the sunlight as a large bronze Buddha figure sat in the corner looking on. What kind of wat is this?

Erik’s Father directed our attention to the building on our right as the others snapped pictures and gawked at the beauty of the statue. Four dogs lay lazily on the steps leading up to the poorly painted building’s inside platform revealing itself as a crematorium, its smokestack rising out of the top. Is this some sort of jungle temple? Like, monks gone mad? Are they crazy cannibal monks that the rain forest had somehow twisted and turned from Buddha? Are we just some stupid tourists stumbling into a death trap? My feet were toed- up to split at any minute.

Curiosity won us over and we continued to slink onward toward the mouth of a cave in the distance. Still cautious, I hid behind the corner of a building, peeking out as if I was a secret agent marking my target. Erik and his uncle walked down the path leading to the cave and as I watched them the inside of the cave became clearer. What was inside? What the hell is that???? A giant, red-faced Sesame Street puppet gone very, very bad sat upright encaged in a chain link fence. To its right was a large- was it papier-mâché?- jaguar in prowl mode. A few Buddha images in various positions and mediums were scattered around and alms jars lined the left side of the puppet. What had we stumbled upon? Oh, no, this was it. We had stumbled upon some sort of evil place. Maybe they had already eaten all the monks! What is that red-faced statue? Is it Satan? This can not be good. Where were all the monks? My mind raced with images of us captured and tethered together. A gigantic cauldron sat atop flames heating water to a boil as we are lead up a small coconut tree ladder to be stewed. All the while strayed monks and wild natives danced around in scraps of orange robes waving sticks and chanting incantations to the red-faced evil demon.

I snapped out of my daymare as a monkey scurried past my feet. The monkeys had followed us in and now a family of about thirty grey monkeys wrestled, chattered and played around us like some sort of watchdog to the keepers of the red-faced demon puppet. I shooed them with my hands and noticed Erik motioning for me to join from the mouth of the cave. Taking another peek around the corner, I scuttled to the cave keeping low and monkey like. Entering the cave, I felt as though I was trespassing and discovering a hidden treasure all at the same time. The call of monkeys echoed as I stood facing a large two-paned chalkboard inside the cave. Written in cursive English was the story of a giant woman who had lived in the cave many years before. It went on to tell of how the woman bore a son who, upon learning that his Mother was a giant, disowned and denounced her. Heart broken, the woman died. But, before she passed she left a pool of tears (holy water) for her son. The son learned this and was ashamed.

The red-faced puppet was, in fact, a statue of the female giant. Feeling a little relieved I wandered around the other Buddha images, wai-ing in respect. A stout monk emerged from the side of the cave and began to re-tell us the story that we had just read. His English was well defined, with only a few pronunciation problems, but a great sense of humor, “Where you frum?”

“America…East coast…Vermont.”

“Ah, America. I go to Denvah’, Cololado. You know? Many, many year ago.”

“Ah, yeah, Denver, Colorado. Sure.”

“Like Laws Vegas.” He chuckled to himself at his joke. “Many lights. Big.”
“Cold.” I added. With the rest of the family joining us, we followed the monk into the cave. Hesitantly, I stayed at the back, unfortunately not where the two flashlights were the brightest. He shone his light on a giant toad and a hiding puppy as we wound our way to the “holy water” in the depth of the cave. We came to a large room, its stone walls covered with a black Thai script. I wondered what it said as the monk pointed to a hole in the wall.

“Holy water for healing. You have the sickness, you can take. Many people feel better. Can sa-wim. Maybe one, two minutes. Feel good.” He smiled brightly and I couldn’t help but think what idiots we are to climb into this hole and dunk ourselves in stagnant cave water. Like the Blarney stone in Ireland, it’s probably a local’s joke.

“Do you go in?” I asked as two anxious family members climbed in.

“No, never need to. Don’t need.” He held his smile and I thought, what the heck. I can’t resist the promise of health after my bout with sickness in the past months. I climbed into the hole and descended the few meters down the rickety ladder to dip my fingers into the so-called “holy water”. I rubbed a little on my neck and looked into the pool. The glow of the flashlight only shone enough to see a few meters in front of us; the rest was swallowed in darkness. Then it came to me, this was it. This is when we get sacrificed to the god-knows-what rain forest beast that lives in the depth of the cave. My heart skipped and my vision blurred into the darkness. We were the stupid tourists tromping into the demon’s sacrificial liar. We were like Joe and his volcano, alright. I turned on my heel, my shoes slipping in the clay-like muck and gladly let the others climb down to the water.

I emerged from the cave to an empty room. The monk was gone. Waiting for the others to finish their death-dip, I scanned the walls with its artistic Thai writing. I wish I knew what it said. Surviving the sacrificial trap, we all made it out of the darkened cave and back into sunlight. The monk was waiting for us and chattering with the monkeys as they climbed atop the Buddha images as if to say that this area was their playground and we had better recognize that. Like little humans with tails they bounded across the dusty ground wrestling and nipping at each other.

“The monkey, he show you how they play. He show you cave. You can go up. Monkey can say, ‘No!’ You say, ‘please monkey’ and give him banana. He say mibbe one banana, mibbe two!” He erupted in laughter with his hands on his hips.

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The stairs creaked as we wearily inched upward on their rotted boards. The stairs were built into the side of a limestone cliff with concrete, steel banisters and wooden planks. They were suspended haphazardly above rain forest brush. The monkeys joined us in our climb, chattering and twisting through the hanging overgrowth around us. I gripped the rusted banister with white knuckles as I crossed the suspension bridge, its body swerving like a snake as we crossed. Some boards were green with time and one flipped up as I put my weight on it, the nail completely rotted out. I gripped the banister harder with a slight squeak of surprise. You could see that repairs had been done…at some point, because another board was laid atop the rotted one and nailed into it.

I was Indian Jones, man. Only I didn’t have a snazzy hat and little sidekick kid to annoy me, I had sunscreen and monkeys. I envisioned the banister, old and unkempt, cracking at the point of concrete connection to the face of the cliff. The ladder would gracefully float downward, giving way from under my feet and I would have to cling to rotted board or jungle vines, pleading with the monkeys for help.

Fortunately, the boards were stable enough. Shaky legs made it to the higher platform where we were met by a male monkey, his fur fluffed in intimidation.

“Look, we don’t have any damn bananas.” Erik explained to the monkey.

“Easy, now. Just scurry along Mr. Monkey.” I chimed in. He looked at us with contempt, his eyes scanning our empty hands. Eventually he climbed to a nearby tree limb, its height directly where our heads would pass. Was he going to chomp us as we passed? The last thing we needed was a monkey bite, contracting monkey H.I.V or herpes or rabies, or God knows what else. With no bananas, bribery wasn’t an option. We carefully glided by.

The cave was filled with millions of still black bodies hanging from the ceiling and only after a light whistle did a few of them stir. It smelled dank and wet; earthy. Its darkness wasn’t exactly what I’d call inviting, but invitation or not, we went in. After we scanned the perimeter (the thought of a cave monster still lingering in the background of my thoughts) we braved the dissent of the stairs again.

The sun hung high in the afternoon’s cloudless sky; its heat burning into our skin and causing the dirt to stick to our moistened bodies. We walked out the way we entered, quiet and awestruck at the odd treasure we had unveiled. We had survived.

Back in the Running

So I'm not bloated and decomposing in some ditch in the back woods er, rain forest of Thailand. I'm happy to report that my phantom rash has faded into the past (thank God) and I no longer look like some sort of Micheal Jackson Thriller video extra. I still have a cough, but the inhaler seems to be helping. I'll probably have this for the rest of my time here. What can you say though? I mean, the country has no visible emission standards, and when you're pinned between two massive lorries going 70Km/hour, you're kind of stuck sucking black smoke.

You no longer have to sign in to make a comment so, let's dialogue away!

Make it Go Away!

I was in a bad dream. I thrashed around trying to get the ants off of me. I was in a thick mud and my body could feel every grain of sand. Was I awake or asleep? Was I in that in between stage? My nails raked my sore legs to try to relieve the itch but left only a burning row in its wake. Did I slough on cream I was allergic to, my face burning in response? I tossed in bed. Opening my eyes I saw that the dawn had entered my room—what time was it? Had I slept at all? My legs radiated a fire and begged for more scratching. Like a yearning for a bad drug, my growing rash needed to be fed. It didn’t matter the repercussions I would feel in ten, twenty minutes, I just needed that quick fix…

On no sleep and extremely uncomfortable I went into work. I was quickly sent on my way out to the nearest hospital. “Just get better,” they called as I whimpered out to my motorbike.

“Okay. Uh-huh. Now, uh-huh I give you injection for stop rash.” The skin doctor told me sympathetically. I had already been to the general doctor who had directed me to see the skin specialist I was with now and a chest, throat and ear specialist afterward for my deep and quickly becoming, chronic cough. A consultation with the skin specialist in the pseudo spa inspired aesthetics center had already led me downstairs for an allergy test. They didn’t tell me it was going to be a gallon syringe to milk the blood from my tiny and delicate veins. Getting blood drawn, one of my most dreaded doctor appointment necessities was over in a matter of minutes and before I knew it, I was already halfway up the stairs to return to the skin center.

“Okay,” I answered meekly standing across from her awkwardly. Am I supposed to sit? And sit where? Do I sit on the table? I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Should I wait for them to motion me? What is the Thai doctor- patient protocol? My lowered gaze snuck up to catch the shadowlike nurse’s knowing smile. I dropped my backpack to the floor and surveyed the surroundings. A small round table and two chairs made up the consulting area we had occupied earlier when the blood test was decided. The hospital bed in the room wasn’t your typical sterile white cot, either. This one was covered with a Thai-inspired tapestry with little face pillows and a contrasting throw at the foot. Was this where I was supposed to sit? It looked more like I’d be getting acupuncture or my eyebrows plucked than a medical examination in this room.

“Do you want, uh-huh, the throat doctor for, uh-huh, the cuff?” The Doctor faded back into the audible foreground. “I tink, uh-huh, is bad. Need different anti-biotic, uh-huh.” Her mouth continued to move as the audio faded out of my mind again. I couldn’t help but focus on this shot I was about to get... an injection! A needle! Somewhere on my body. Half-listening I decided to make a move toward the spa bed. As I climbed up she continued to talk of my cough and who I should see. But all I could think about is this shot. This shot, an injection, a needle! How big will it be? Where is it going to go?

Interrupting her rant I asked, “Where do I get the shot?” I just had to know. I couldn’t wonder any longer. Half of me knew where it was going to go; I just didn’t want to believe it. I can’t remember how she answered me, maybe it was the shock of realization that has made it flee my memory, but she told me—the butt. I audibly mumbled, “Oh, God,” as I began to lower myself to the bed.

“If you want, you can take only tablet. Uh-huh. And no injection, uh-huh. But I think uh-huh, better injection, uh-huh. More quickly.” I groaned in arrogance as I lay on my stomach, face planted in the soft pillow. “I tink, uh-huh, it okay.” She tried to console my dread. Yeah, sure Lady. It’s not going to be you with the sore bum. The shadow nurse swooped in and began to hike up my skirt to expose my rashed left cheek. As I felt the cool air on my exposed bottom, I could only mumble half-reassuring words to myself: It’ll be quick. It’ll be better. This will help. It won’t hurt. The nurse who had drawn my blood earlier had been like an angel, some sort of magical needle angel who could draw mass amounts of blood without any pain or prick. My faith was up. I was ready to rid myself of this hell if it took a little stab in the backside.

I imagined myself detatched from my own body looking in on the situation. How funny it would be to an outsider! The shadow nurse in her pale blue uniform would be smoothing the contrasting blanket over my legs so that it folded perfectly. The doctor at the chrome counter top would be filling a syringe with liquid and holding it up to the fluorescent light. And me, my head buried face first in the pillow or sneaking a peek at myself in the mirror at my head reflecting the absolute horror I felt. And in the center of it all, one spotted red cheek rising out of a mound of black flower printed fabric. It was like some sort of demented painting.

I did everything I could to avoid looking at the needle. If I didn’t see it, I couldn’t freak out; although, my imagination did picture it as an arm-length ice pick dramatically spurting liquid from the top as she rounded the corner of the hospital bed and approached my vulnerable rump.

“Okay, uh-huh. Injection.” She cooed as a sharp pain pierced my backside. Just as I thought, This isn’t so bad, a heat began to burn, spread and pierce.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” I moaned under my breath. It lasted only a few moments, the end of which left me paralyzed on the bed holding the burning area.

“You can sit for a moment,” the doctor reassured me as I, still frozen, made no attempt to do otherwise. After a respectable amount of stillness I rose and rolled onto my right hip to hop off the bed. I rubbed the pain with the heel of my hand, caressing the sore area. It swelled with heat and tingled with the surge of medicine. Golly, that was fun. But I knew I had more doctors to see.

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“The Doctor will see you now.” A small, white-uniformed nurse half-whispered to me. I put down my paper Dixie cup of coffee-mocha and grabbed my bag. Time to solve this chronic cough.

The chest, throat and ear specialist encouraged me to get an X-ray of my sinuses. Erik’s voice kept ringing in my head: “Just do whatever it takes to figure out what’s wrong.” However, my mind automatically went to my pocketbook.

“Miss McGill?” A petite nurse in white uniform asked me shyly as I sat sipping what was left of my free coffee-mocha blend.

“Yes.””Please come wit me.”

“Ooookay,” I said cheerily as I scooped up my bag once again and followed her. Now filled with farangs, I walked through the hospital’s first floor watching as they scarfed down large cups of cappuccinos at the small café. Suckers, I thought as I tasted the sweet cream still on my tongue. My escort was joined by another nurse and like flying geese we breezed through the lobby in patient-nurse formation. At a fork in our path the two split. Which nurse was mine? They both looked exactly alike from behind: white skirt suit, black poufy hair bow. Was mine the tall one or the short one? I chose to follow the one that branched off to the right and glanced at the other as she went left. She held some sort of Tupperware container and I knew I had chosen wisely.

Feeling a little high from the cortisone injection I was led into a small room by a sharply dressed man. “You sit here. Put nose to da’ line.” I sat on the cool metal stool, my left cheek slightly hanging off. “Like dis,” he lifted my head and stuck my nose, bridge down, against the red cross on a white screen. “Hold still.” He instructed as he backed away from me. Huh, what do you know? No heavy apron here either, just pure radiation surging through my body. Great guess we’ll add cancer to this coupling. After the second x-ray I returned to the doctor where I sat waiting, another Dixie cup of coffee-mocha in my hand. Hey, I’m going to get something out of this even if it is only six free cups of coffee.

After a briefing from the specialist on the causes of sinus infections and what a clouded sinus looks like in an x-ray, I left him. I walked towards the pharmacy/cashier with a shopping list of anti-biotics, anti-histamines, decongestants, saline nasal wash, expectorants and other anti- this and that’s. I forked over an obscene amount of money, of which I probably wouldn’t have in the states but had to in a foreign country just because I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t pick and choose what I wanted and what I didn’t want at this point, I was just too desperate to heal. They had me by the bum, and nose, and throat and went in for the pocketbook kill.

I walked out of the hospital and into the thick air to my motorbike. I had two follow-ups scheduled for the next week and a little hope tucked away in the goody bags of prescriptions given to me by both specialists. I couldn’t wait to start to feel better.


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Update:
I had to go into the hospital again on Friday. The rash was driving me insane! I have never felt so uncomfortable and irritated. It tingles with itch and I think I may be losing my mind. I can’t sleep and lay awake counting imaginary sheep until my alarm clock tells me it is time to get up. My allergy test came back and turns out I’m not allergic to any of the 40 listed items whether its beetroot, cats, or Australian tree mixes. So, that’s nice to know. Now if I could just figure out how to get rid of this damn rash. I look like Freddy Kruger and may have to only come out at night.

Washed all my clothes, sheets, towels over again and stopped using moisturizer. Pray for me.

On a good note… I can smell (kind of) again. Yeah! Now I wear a sweet white painter’s mask when I drive. Yeah, I’m hip. Go back to see that doctor Weds. Can you really develop asthma just like that?

Positive thinking… positive thinking.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Cure...

“You have cuff?” The doctor asked me as she sat at her small linoleum topped desk. She fingered through the sheets of paper lined green and white with the random Molly sporadically scrawled between spiraling hieroglyphics that make up Thai writing.
“Yes.” I answered with a demonstrative deep foghorn of a cough. “And this,” I added lifting my right arm up for inspection, rotating it to give the full effect. Hemming, she scrunched her face in acknowledgement. It seemed not to concern her. So, lifting up the bottom of my skirt to reveal my thighs, I added, “See?”
“Mmmmm.” She moaned as her orange eye-shadowed eyes went from my legs to the paper. She scribbled something down continuing with her interrogation. Apparently, my rash and/or hive covered body was not impressing her. “How long you have cuff?” She asked slumped over the desk, her white frock coat hanging behind her on the mirror.
“I’ve had this cough for about 4 weeks. I got sick at the end of January. Nose, runny, then my head had pressure. My nose is fine now, but cough is bad. My ears feel like I’m under water. You know? Pressure in my ears? And now this,” I said pointing to the red blotches that threatened to cover my entire body. “I don’t know what is.”
“Hmmm. You take what color cuff?”
“The color? Oh, um yellow phlegm?”
“Uh huh, and you take sa-moking?”
“No, I don’t smoke.”
“Mmmmm, and you take womit?”
“Pardon?” I asked raising my eyebrows in total confusion. Even for my trained Thai-lish ears, this one was a bit difficult to make out.
“Womit,” she answered putting her hand to her mouth and dropping forward to the floor in a fluid motion. “You know, womit? You take?”
“No, no vomit.” I half chuckled to myself. Thai’s tend to replace certain letters with others. My boss sometimes jokes about the confusion of switching these letters and the humorous words they make. I couldn’t help but to think of her.
“Feber?”
“Uh, no fever.”
“You have athma? In family?”
“No. No one in my family has asthma.”
“Mother? Father? Sister?” She said jokingly trying to coax out a confession of asthma.
“No. No asthma.”
“Okay,” she said standing up, her small frame barely rising from the desk. Taking the stethoscope in hand she placed it on my chest. “Breathe big.” I inhaled as big as I could making sure to rattle the mystery disease around a little so she was sure to hear it. “Again.” Again I breathed deeply, the phlegm vibrating like a rattler’s tail in my upper chest. She has to be hearing this.
“You hab wheezy in your chess. I tink maybe asthma because wheezy.”
“I don’t have asthma,” I shot back. I am 24 years old for crying out loud. I know that I am sick, that it isn’t asthma.
“Uh-huh. I think you take X-ray of chess.”
“X-ray?” My mind raced to dollar signs. How much would that cost? And it’s not like I have a freakin’ broken rib or something. What are they going to see in an X-ray? “I don’t know…”
“Yes, I think you do because lule out infectious. Okay? I think better.” She smiled and nodded knowingly to me. Her forced curly hair scrunched into a layered mullet stiffly moving as she encouraged even more deeply, her body leaning towards mine. Looking around the room for inspiration and the correct answer to be written on the wall, my eyes met with those of Donald Duck’s, Goofy’s and Mickey Mouse’s. Cartoon characters danced in colorful costume on the low walls of the room and I, I was in the center of it all. Is this a joke? Is she a pediatrician? Is she the only available doctor? Why am I in the little kiddy room? Hey, maybe I get a lollipop?
If this was the only way to make progress in this visit, I was left without a choice. “Okay. X-ray.” I had already inquired of the price and knew that Erik, sitting in the waiting room, would scold me if I didn’t take this precaution. “But what about this?” I begged showing the red blotches on my arms and legs. This was really worrying me, more so than the cough.
“What you take for cuff?”
“I took cough tablet and anti-histamine, for nose. Then I went back to pharmacy because it was not working. He gave me more cough tablet,” I pulled out the green tablets from my bag, “and more anti-histamine. Then he gave me anti-biotic, Amoxicillin. I took for about five days and still not better. I have stopped taking Amoxicillin for five days. Only thing different is that I ate honey Thursday and Friday. I got spot on my leg here.” I lifted my skirt again to the red blotched area on my thighs “So, I stopped eating honey. I woke up this morning and now it is all over my body.”
“Mmmmm. You eat honey?”
“Yes, but never allergic to honey before.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“And I am allergic to Penicillin, but I took Amoxicillin before and I was fine.”
“Mmmmm. I think, maybe, you eat honey and you allergic.” Yeah, thanks lady, I just said that.
“It’s not Measles? Person at my work had German Measles. It’s not that, right?” I nodded to her hoping for some recognition of the disease.
“You hab feber?” Didn’t we go over this?
“No, no fever. I feel fine.”
“You take sa-moking?” Are you kidding me?
“No, I don’t smoke. Do you think allergic to something?” My frustration was mounting. I felt like I was diagnosing myself.
“Yeeees, I tink allergic. Maybe honey. Okay?” Nodding to me she turned and pushed a button on the wall, lighting up a red light bulb above. A nurse came in and gathered my chart. They spoke in Thai as I kneaded my hands together. X-ray? What’s an X-ray going to do?
I dressed in a red smock, its ties coming together in the front in a kind of Eastern flare. Murmuring to myself, I exited the restroom and took my position in front of the giant screen. The technician positioned my body and instructed me not to move as he left the room. What? No protective covering anywhere? Apparently Thailand has yet to realize the potentially harmful effects of over exposure to the ol’ X-ray gun. Or is it that the West is just a little too protective? Things you think are normal everyday precautions, like refrigerating eggs, go by without a second glance here. I guess my body will just take on a little more radiation than normal today- all in the sake of science, of course.
I took a seat waiting for the X-ray to be developed. My grumpy technician came out of the room and held a dark chest X-ray up to an illuminated board.
“Is that you?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know. Looks good though.”
“Looks like a chest.” He grinned at me looking up from the pages of his massively fat book. Smiling back coyly, I poked him in the ribs.
Soon enough I was back in kiddy wonderland. Waiting, the Doctor gestured for me to sit. Fumbling with the folder holding the X-ray, she awkwardly maneuvered around me. I motioned for Erik to come in with me as he sat peeking through the crack of the sliding screen door.
”X-ray good. Lule out selious infection.” She said holding it up to the light. Making her way back to the desk, heels clicking on the floor, she added, “No Tuberculosis. No Pneumonia. Dat’s good. We know not selious infection.” My eyes met with Erik’s and I saw him wanting to add more.
“But the rash. What about this?” He asked.
“I tink allergic to da honey.” She said smiling.
Gee, looks like now I’m a Doctor. I feel like I made my own diagnosis. I feel kind of cheated, a little let down by the Thai health system. All I can do is take the medicine she gave me and hope it works. Guess we’ll see.
* To be continued… The plot thickens over the next few days.

Chun Pu

We have a new addition to the household. She is small, but she sure is a handful!

Erik and I were coming home from a dinner out with friends. It was just getting dark as we stopped at the local market to pick up some fruit for our long bus ride the next day. You can never count on the “lunch and snacks” the bus company promises, so we are always sure to carry a few snacks ourselves.

I hopped off the back of the motorbike as Erik wheeled it to a stop in the loose dirt and erupted a cloud of dust. I removed my helmet and walked toward the shamble-shack with its frayed canvas awning sloping like a slack jaw. I bowed my head to enter the cover and glanced up at the dimly lit rows of fruit. The shelves the fruit lay on come to about chest high, each level displayed a different fruit. Pineapples with spiky hair lay next to dragon fruit, its green –tipped, purple leaves sprawled outward toward the piles of different sized oranges. I am sure that the oranges are all different varieties but can never be communicated past anything but, “orange.” Mangosteens resembling overgrown blueberries with hard shells nestled with the spiky, green-red hairs of rambutans. I scanned the colors to find our apples.

Through the small opening between the shelves came a boy about seventeen from the shadows behind. Much taller than me he stooped under the canopy and held a thin plastic bag open for me to put my fruit into. I smiled at him and leaned over awkwardly to reach for the apples in their pink Styrofoam netting. Picking a few, I rolled them in my hands to check for firmness and bruising. Happy with the four I found I nodded to him to acknowledge that that was all. “Tao rai, ka. See apple, ka. See-sip baht?” (“How much? Four apples. Forty Baht?”) I asked as I reached for my wallet. He turned behind him to grab a calculator and I saw a small shadow dart behind the stall. “Oh, lek meow.” (“Oh, small cat.” As I don’t know the word for kitten or baby.) He furrowed his brow at me and cocked his head to one side. I pointed to the where the shadow had been, “Lek meow.”

An older boy about my age came from behind the other. He smiled at me and leaned down into the darkness. He returned and held a tiny, little mound of fur in his outstretched hand. Two green eyes peered at me as he shoved the warm body into my already full hands. Struggling to balance the bag of apples and to not drop the tiny body, I lowered one shoulder and slid the bag onto my right arm. A little calico cat purred at me as I scratched under her chin and held her up to the sky in my left hand. She just sat, purring away with her little back legs outstretched from beneath her white belly, toes spread in the cool air. She was the chillest little kitten ever.

I smiled at her as I handed her back to the fruit boys. “For you.” he said with his hands up in refusal.
“For me? No, no.” I answered him trying to push the kitten into his hands.
“For you. Yes!”
“For me?” I studied the creature. She looked so content just slumped in my hand. She looked at me and blinked her green eyes lazily. “Erik, I think we have a cat.” I called to him over my shoulder.
“What?” He said as he walked toward me.

The mother cat appeared from under the rows of striped watermelons and I put the kitten down to her. The kitten crawled on the mother and they playfully batted at each other. They rolled onto their stomachs and nipped at the other’s ear. Erik and I backed away to observe and discussed the situation- were we really going to take her? The kitten saw us and bounded toward where we were standing. She began to rub her head and small body against our legs and crisscrossed around our ankles. She dove into Erik’s hand as he leaned down to her. “Yeah, she’s a keeper.” We agreed.

I held her against my chest as we drove the rest of the way home.

Born to be Wild..ish

* a quick note before the boss catches me... I know the office is dying to hear*

It's a glorious day when you experience your very first visitors in your new home- especially when your new home is a developing country halfway around the world. My Father (Pops) and Step-Mother (Barb) staggered through the sliding glass doors of the domestic arrivals only an hour or so later than expected. For Thailand, that's pretty good.
Unfortunately, my "Wild Harley Hog motorcycle Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants" parents have had a rough start. They haven't actually slept a good nights sleep since getting on the 17 hour plane due to "those damn airplane seats" and a broken Sleep Apnea machine. The plane, tolerable. The machine, a major pain in the ass and worry for us all (more so for Barb because she can't sleep next to the logger sawing off cords of wood whose saw keeps getting stuck).
To cheer them both up I thought it would be nice to hop on the motorbikes and cruise to the lookout point near our house. They're bikers, right? They can handle my little 100 Honda Wave no prob...Yeah. Aside from popping wheelies, almost dropping Barb on her butt halfway up the mountain and shifting the wrong way, Pops has received what we here in Phuket like to call The Phuket Tattoo, a nice tailpipe burn along the calf. Only the coolest hard core bikers have it, (ahem, yeah).
It's been a rough start with worrying about how to fix the machine in Thailand and figuring out transportation, but today we hit a high point. The machine (Thank you Bangkok-Phuket Hospital) is running. Thank God. The worry and stress is over.
Now we just hop a boat to Koh Phi Phi in the morning and lounge on the beach. The salt water should be good for the leaking wound adorning Pops' leg. And before we know it, that'll be fine too!

Son of a b$%^h

Sometimes I just want to fall to my knees on the dingy ground and scream, "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Buddha! Whhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy!"
I want to spit on the ground and curse this country. Kick the flimsy wheel of my rental bike and pull at my hair.

In our neighborhood we have a pleasant little park where Erik and I go running to try to keep off the rice pounds that like to pile up around the ol' tum-tum. We've been coming sporadically for about 4 weeks now. It really gives you a sense of community and belonging. You see the same faces and smile. You start conversations in broken Thai-lish (Thai-English) as you jog past you puff out a hello or sawasdee and continue on. It's quite lovely...until today.

I went running by myself today because Erik works late. I put on my running shoes, the blue bullets, and hopped on my motorbike to run some laps. I glanced at the time displayed on my phone and locked it away in my seat. Today I'll run five laps in 20 mins, I thought.

I started my laps, the iPod blaring shuffled songs in my ear. A man I usually see stops and we exchange small talk: I am good thank you. As I round the last lap, my face matching the red of my shirt, I stagger to my bike to check the time. Oh, one message. I'll check it later. Placing the phone back into the seat of my bike and locking it, I start a cool down lap.

Eventually I return to my bike. I wonder if Erik is home yet? I use my keys to unlock my bike and pull up the seat- nothing. Did I take it with me? Did I put it on a bench? I'm running through situations that could have occurred but I know damn well that they didn't. I'm spinning in circles looking at everyone that has come since I started on my laps. I was the first person here and now about 50 or so people are walking, hacky-sacking with the traditional Thai woven ball, using the fitness park or talking with friends. I'm helpless and alone. Unsure and skeptical. Hurt and humiliated. Is someone watching me and laughing? Are they thinking "stupid farang." Am I an idiot. Did I not lock my bike? No, I absolutely locked my bike. I punched it down. Oh, God not again. Not another phone!

I retrace my steps searching the ground. Walking back to my bike, I ask the motor-taxi driver sitting on a stump in my poor Thai-lish if he saw anyone at my bike. He understands me and tells me no. I wai and thank him, tears welling in my eyes. Am I upset? Damn right. Am I mad? More like a combination of disgraced and pissed off.

He jumps up to follow me, pointing at some men playing hacky. He approaches and asks them. No luck. Soon the whole park is involved. People I usually wave, nod or wai to are now crowded around my bike as I try to hold back tears and explain the situation. They speak to me in Thai with large hand movements. I only catch tibits of information, the few words I know linking together to get the jist of the paragraph they just said to me. Hold it together, save face. Save face, damn it. I can't cry, they would lose respect. You have to save face in Thailand or they won't bother with you. I take deep breaths and nod as I try to catch foreign words in the air as they fly past me.

They tell me to go to the Police Station. "Chun Bpai. Bpai mai?" I ask. ("Go? I should go?"). I do what they tell me because they are trying to help and I don't want them to think I am ungrateful. I go to the Police Station down the road, which is actually only an office. The motorbike taxi man comes with me, assisting in Thai. They can't help. I need to go to the actual station in town. I know that nothing is going to happen. I make a report, it gets filed. That's that. This is Thailand. I know well enough by now that a missing phone is dog shit on their shoes.

So here I am. Telling you all. Venting my frustration. It's not the actual phone, although the financial damage is a major pain in the ass. It's the fact that I got robbed, right in my own cozy little park. Why me? What did I do? My karma should be good. I'm a good person, damn it. It hurts. I feel cheated and utterly disappointed in the whole situation. My phone. I just got that bloody thing! I have to change my number...again. Someone went into my bike and stole my phone. It's a naked and dirty feeling. Ashamed at my trusting. Ashamed that I was dooped again. I feel stupid and angry and all kinds off dark colors and I don't want that.

I know it's just a phone, that not everyone in Thailand stole it. I can't help but do a sideways glance now. It sure opens your eyes to the dirt that lies under the rug.