A little late- but sent with good juju…
After 13 glorious months of darkness, no fresh fruit, two minute showers two times a week, and mild memory loss I finally left the South Pole on November 10th. Then I hid out in Christchurch, New Zealand trying valiantly not to get run over. I haven’t been around vehicles that move faster than 5 mph in over a year. Not to mention vehicles that move very, very swiftly and from the opposite direction I am used to. Leaving Christchurch on November 17th I spent one evening in the bizarre world of the Singapore Airport. This is the airport Tom Hanks should have gotten stuck in while in the movie “The Terminal”. The joint has everything- a swimming pool, two gyms, a mall, restaurants, massage parlors, a hotel by the hour (yeah, I thought that too), and a Malaysian Santa with his own bevy of Malaysian girl elves. Call me racist- but Santa just isn’t Santa when he weighs a buck and a quarter with a tan.
After arriving in Chiang Mai I waited in line at customs. I know it is irrational but customs people terrify me. When I was a flight attendant with Northwest Airlines I would almost have an anxiety attack everytime I had to clear customs. Which was almost everyday. It’s not because of anything I am attempting to smuggle- while flying into Singapore I threw my gum and Altoids away just to be double sure. I am uber careful when I travel about anything they might find offensive. It’s the incredible urge I get to confess for things I have already done. I am not religious by any means- but I think if I were Catholic this would be the same urge I would get when seeing a priest. Just spontaneous confessions. Which would cause me more grief than I could handle if, while going through Thailand customs, I blurted out “Ok, fine I stole that pink Barbie dress from Becky Murray in the third grade!”
I made it through customs with all my sins intact then stood patiently at the luggage carousel while it spit out all the contents of the flight. Slowly the luggage dwindled to one blue suitcase whirling slowly round and round. There is such a despair that falls over me when the luggage carousel clacks to a stop and my luggage is no where to be seen. I stood there patiently, as if it was going to start up again and my big backpack would suddenly appear. I made my way to the Lost Luggage counter and the before I could say anything the Thai man, his name was Oak and I was able to refrain from asking if he had a brother named pine, walked out to the carousel and pointed to the one lonely blue bag and said “That your luggage?”
“No Sir, it’s not”
He points again “You sure that not your luggage”
Well it has been 16 hours since I checked it in, perhaps it mutated or I just plumb forgot what my luggage looked like.
“No Sir, I am positive that’s not my luggage”
So began the arduous task of filling out forms, choosing a luggage mugshot that best represented my backpack, and trying to tell him where to bring it when it was found since I had no idea at this point where I was staying.
I should admit this right up front. I didn’t prepare for this trip in any manner. I didn’t read up on the history, or pour over maps, or try to learn the language. I did pick up a copy of Lonely Planet in the Singapore Airport and listen briefly to the “Learn Thai” language program on the plane before I fell asleep. Other than that I pretty much showed up with a backpack and a desire to eat as much mango as humanly possible. But first, I needed a place to stay. Since my gorgeous niece is named Sarah I chose Sarah’s Guesthouse from the guidebook. I called and a British woman’s voice answered- so polite and well, British, I just knew this was the place for me. I envisioned a regale British ex-pat with flowing skirts and an herb garden. As the guidebook description of the place said it was affordable, close to the night market, had a cooking school, and a garden. Upon arrival the garden was a patch of packed dirt with two dirty dogs and a couple of decrepit mopeds in various stages of dismantling. As I walked in the garden one dog crawled under a truck and the other dog, a large retriever, took to jumping on me and nipping anything he could reach. After leaving a nice tear in my jacket, I kneed him ever so discreetly. This was to be a ritual we repeated upon my every return to the guesthouse. Jump. Nip. Knee. Jump again, Nip Again, Knee again.
After running the gauntlet of dog I found Sarah. Who wasn’t at all darling and regale. She was like a mental patient trying desperately not to be seen. She just dodged around corners or spoke rapidly from dark areas before sending a Thai girl out to take the money and show me to my room. I kept telling myself she had her dentures out and didn’t want to be seen. But in the brief glimpse I got of her she seemed a bit young for extensive dental work. My room was on the second story and had a fan, two small beds, and a private bathroom all for 6 bucks a night. That evening I collapsed into bed and awoke to what sounded like the largest dog fight in history occurring outside my door. It was just every dog in the neighborhood greeting every human that walked by. And I do mean every human.
Then I realized I had been devoured by mosquito’s in the night. Small, red bites on all of me. I went immediately to a drug store to get some Benadryl. Now here is an interesting fact about Thailand. Other than morphine or codeine, there are no controlled substances. You can self dose with anti-biotics, pain killers, allergy meds…this is a hypochondriacs dream world. The pharmacist, who most people go see to get diagnosed, looked at me and said “Oh, that’s not mosquito. You have bed bugs”
This obviously must be a mistake. Bed bugs, bankruptcy, and chlamydia are things that occur to other people. Not me. I’ll admit right up front- I’ve had ringworm, ticks, and flea bites like nobodies business. But bed bugs? Freaking gross. I didn’t believe him until later that day I had a Thai massage and the therapist said “Oh Miss, you have bed bug, huh?” The hunt for new digs was on.
Nipping dog= annoying.
Packed dirt “garden”= ugly.
But bed bugs= move immediately. I moved to an adorable little joint called The Bamboo Den. Which really reflects the Siam heritage better than some old British broad.
This last week here in Chiang Mai I have been taking Advanced Thai Massage courses from Lek Chaiya Nerve Touch School.
http://www.nervetouch.com/ I have had knees and elbows in places that shouldn’t have knees and elbows. I have crawled on, yanked, pulled, thrown, and basically beat the holy living daylights out of people all in the name of Thai Massage. This is full contact massage. It has been so marvelous I start another course tomorrow in the country.
www.homprang.com .
Today I spent the day at Thai Farm Cooking School. It was fantastic. They came and fetched me from my guesthouse this morning then we, there were 5 of us, went to a local market where the guide explained all the fruits and products we were going to use. I missed an enormous amount of this instruction because I couldn’t stop watching the fish whacking happening next to us. Two men were standing next to a fish tank so full of fish they were just gasping to keep alive. A few made a mad dash out onto the concrete floor but it did them no good as they were scooped up, placed on a wooden block, and whacked on the head with a club. Then tossed in a basket where a woman was pulling them leisurely out and gutting them. Fresh doesn’t seem to cover it. We left the market and drove into the country. At one point we were on a rutted dirt road and over the brush I could see two monks bathing in a pond. Their Saffron colored robes drapped over the bushes and waving in the wind. Monks here wear black skivvies in case you were wondering.
At the farm we picked the herbs we would use. Then we lined up in an outdoor kitchen with free standing propane stoves and cooked our hearts out. We made curry, sticky rice and mango, papaya salad, pad thai, stir fry and egg rolls. It was a great day away from the city.
Of the millions of things that stand out here the complete lack of litigation or fear of being sued is the biggest. If I were to go to a cooking class at a farm in the states I would have to sign five documents saying I hold no one liable, I know there will be fresh products which could cause stomach issues, sharp objects will be present, I will be riding in the back of a truck, there will be dogs present, and the stove is a free standing propane tank. And there will be no refrigeration available. Actually if I saw all that in a cooking school brochure in the States I probably wouldn’t go. But when in Thailand…
I’ve been a finalist in poetry contests for individual poems before, but this is the first time my book manuscript has garnered any sort of attention. So, you know what, I’m celebrating!