Finger Brushing in a Row House

“Here we are. Just gotta walk the last thirty feet because the car cannot fit.” 

My new boss gallantly grabbed my backpack from the trunk. The backpack looked much more proportional on his six foot frame as he forged ahead down the increasingly narrow alleyway. 

We had parked just ahead of three chest high, blue trash cans that were overflowing with plastics bags. I was staring at the obvious eye sore when one crashed down and a victorious looking street dog grabbed a mouthful of plastic and scurried off into an empty lot. The sudden movement of the trash pile caused the slow yet penetrating scent of rotting fish, death and sour fruit to reach my nostrils. Mixed with the oppressive heat it smelt like someone had taken the lid off some kind of cannibalistic crockpot. My ‘illusion of normalicy’ bubble had officially burst.

Thar she blows....

                                   

My new boss stepped up onto a concrete slab and began to fiddle with the padlock on my new front door. The housing unit consisted of 5 single story row houses (with 5 more in the back). Mine was number three. I stepped through the door and was happy to see a clean, rather clinic looking room. The heat was no less oppressive than it had been outside but it was nice to put my bags down with some sense of finality. My boss gave me the grand tour, 

“This is the living room, This is the bedroom, and here is the toilet.” 

“Looks good” I replied, “It has a bed and a toilet. All you need really!” 

I was still affecting my tough girl stance on conquering developing countries standards of living.

 “I will leave you to unpack and settle in.” My new boss continued, “The head teacher, Craig, will stop by later to check on you and introduce himself. I will pick you up on the main road tomorrow morning at 8:00. We will go for a special Thai breakfast before we start your training.”

 I thanked him profusely for picking me up from the airport and handed him a bottle of Canadian wine and a Saskatoon Berry Jam gift package. 

“Thank you very much” he said as he accepted the package, “this is very thoughtful of you but, my wife and I don’t drink, so please keep this and share it with the teachers. They definitely appreciate alcohol in all its forms.”
My boss stepped off the concrete slab of a patio and headed toward his car. I watched him reverse his way out of the narrow alleyway, no small feat, then I went into my new home to unpack.

             I unpacked a few things, hanging up a few work shirts and skirts that Mum had bought me before I left, but I was still really hot. I decided to take my first shower in Thailand. Seemed like an exciting notion; my first shower in my first overseas home. I grabbed my towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner but when I reached the bathroom and tried to put my armload of stuff down I realized that something was missing.

 First, there was no shower. There was a shower head, but was it was just attached to the wall, there was no actual shower. I went to put my stuff down on the sink instead and realized with slight alarm that there was no sink as well. Determined, I lined my shower stuff up on the toilet tank, peeled off my funky clothing, and turned on the shower. 

A soft trickle of clear, scent-free water came down and flowed directly onto and into the toilet. This soft trickle was powerful enough to knock the shampoo and conditioner off the toilet tank and onto the floor, squashing my baby toe in the process. It also managed to knock my toothbrush directly into the toilet bowl. Never being much afraid of germs, I fished my toothbrush out with my bare hands and threw it in the trash can.

 I proceeded to have a decent shower, stand-straddling the toilet in a kind of ‘exotic dancer riding a porcelain horse’ stance. It was only when I was finger brushing my teeth that I remembered where my hand had just been.

I was still under the impression that I had moved into a large sauna, but I managed to make it feel a little more welcoming. The row house only had one slated window in the front wall. The glass was cloudy and I couldn’t be sure if it was by dirt or design, but it effectively obscured my view of looking out and any curious passerby’s view of looking in. This gave me the freedom to create my own little nudist sauna. I pranced around naked, hot and happy. I tacked a few pictures from home onto the wall. It was the usual photographic documentary of best friends, parents, my younger brother, and the family dog.

 Staring at the wall of ‘people of who love me’ I realized the small absurdity of moving so far away from such a wonderful support group, but I was seeking adventure and all the wonderful and fabulous things that I was sure Thailand had in store for me. 

My new exotic life in a new exotic location.

As I sat in front of the fan, set to the highest speed, it dawned on me that this shabby, sinkless row house was my new life. I decided to take a nap.

Don't worry, the ass hose saga cometh.....

                 

Fragrant, Twitchy and Tongue Tied.

I'm on the highway to......

                                                                    

The 30 minute car ride to my new apartment was a blur.  I tried to focus on making a good impression while stealing glances out the window in order to begin absorbing my new surroundings. It was a lot flatter than I expected, resembling faintly the horizon view of my prairie hometown, except the colors were different. It was a blanketed color of lush, rich green. Where there were fields of wheat or canola back home adding hues of golden yellow, there was only green palm tree fronds, green rubber tree leaves, and covering the earth was thick green vegetation that I imagined was full of snakes and giant scorpions.
This bright green was only dulled by a few streaks of brown. A dead palm frond here, couple tree trunks there.
 Occasionally, there was a shock of red earth. The wind gently lifted the red dust and it mixed in with a transparent heat wave shimmer which danced over and around anything stationary. 
 I suddenly realized that my new boss was speaking and turned my gaze to him just as he said, “So, that is about eighteen hours.”

Confused I apologized, “Sorry, I missed the first bit. Eighteen hours of what?”

I saw a quick flash of doubt enter his eyes. “I was explaining that you will be teaching eighteen hours a week.”

 I made a quick, lame joke about how, when you are used to forty hours a week, eighteen must feel like a walk in the park. A flicker of mischievous humor crossed his lip as he replied “Yes, pretty much a walk in the park. Except it is over 35’C in this particular park.”

I held my arms closer to my body, so my fashionable sweat stains were less noticeable, and attempted a fearless laugh, but I was pretty sure he could smell my fear just as easily as he could smell my traveler’s perfume.

The car grew silent for a while and I was free to study Thailand from the car window. I felt a bit as if I was visiting a giant aquarium. From the safe bubble of the car I felt comfortable, unchanged, as if I had walked into the largest attraction at the aquarium but would soon step out on the other side into the daylight of the town I knew.

After all, I was sitting in a lovely, clean, four door sedan, listening to Sigur Ros and had just finished having an English conversation. The only thing throwing off this illusion of 'things as normal' inside the car was the fact that the steering wheel was on the wrong side. This was causing me to have irrepressible spasms each time I saw a large pickup truck hurtling towards us from what seemed to be the wrong side of the road.
Also, I was trying desperately to hide my urge to constantly kick at the ghost brake pedal, but despite my efforts, my new boss seemed to notice the twitching and gave me a sidelong glance that was mixed with both pity and trepidation.

 He was being a gracious new boss, offering his knowledge of Thailand and trying to get to know his new employee. I imagined him going home to his wife and her asking about the new girl. ‘What’s she like?’  Fragrant, twitchy and tongue tied would surely be his response.
.I jumped out of this daydream just as we turned off the major road and into a narrow alley.                   

Apparently, I was home.

Thank god he didn't pick me up in this.
(also thank god the guy in this pic was not him.)

                                   

Sweat Stained Young Professional

                                          

                                                           360 degree sweat!

  

            My connecting flight from Bangkok to the relatively small town of Surat Thani in Southern Thailand, took a little over an hour. I was looking haggard. My new boss was picking me up from the airport and I had hoped to present myself as an eager young professional; fresh, clean and ready for this new adventure. I had imagined myself tucking my hair shyly being my ear and then flashing a bright smile as I chirped my thanks for being given this wonderful opportunity. In reality, I was exhausted. 

           I had spent the night in the Bangkok airport because I was much too apprehensive to think about venturing away from the relative comfort of such a cookie cutter facility. This caused me a small amount of shame because I felt I was already tip toeing away from the ‘full’ experience. (The 'full' experience being what 'travellers' and not tourists do. Or so I had read.) I soothed myself with the knowledge that it was only the first day. As I stepped out of the plane and onto the rickety steps leading down to the Surat runway, the full blast of midday heat bitch-slapped me in the face. I began to regret that I was facing this day on only a few stolen hours of sleep.

Had I ventured farther outside the airport doors at Suvanamaboomerang and realized the extent of the brutal, relentless heat that is an everyday companion to Thai life, I would have taken a minute to gaze fondly at my frozen drool. I had chosen to complain, rather than cherish, the frozen tundra of Survanamaboom and now I was trudging across the heat blanketed tarmac of Surat Thani airport. Within the three minutes it took to walk to the terminal I was dripping sweat. Literally dripping. I had experienced the literary phenomenon of dripping sweat before, notably after hour long soccer matches in the middle of summer, but never in my life had a 3 minute walk ended with salty tendrils of sweat rippling down my back. I did a discrete visual of my armpits only to be greeted by an unpleasant waft of ‘eau de three day travel’ and  large coffee mug sized rings of damp material.  I was not excited to be meeting the new boss man in such a state of unhygienic disarray but I forged on, two hands grabbed my man-sized backpack off the turnstile (which I am sure caused a few more salty droplets) and headed toward the pick-up area.

When questioned over the phone about how I would recognize him, my boss had replied with humor ‘Oh, don’t worry I will be the only six foot, bald, white guy.” Sounded easy enough, but I was still a little worried that perhaps we would miss each other and I would be stranded in a small city in Thailand with no idea of where to go or how to get there. I should not have worried. As I passed through the smoked glass door into the waiting area I looked up and spotted him immediately.

 He was not the only six foot bald white guy but he was, in fact, the only white guy. I walked toward him with my man-sized backpack teetering precariously. I smiled, a large sense of relief washing over me, then I realized that something else was washing over me as well. Sweat was now dripping directly into my eyes, courtesy of the extra effort required to carry my gargantuan back pack. Just as I reached up and palmed the sweat off of my forehead my new boss thrust out his hand in greeting.  Reaching out to shake his hand I quickly realized that the slime of sweat that now coated my hand might not be an appreciated exchange of fluids. I quickly wiped my hand on my jeans creating a perfect hand sized imprint of damp material. I looked up, faced flushed with heat and embarrassment, as my new boss man smiled knowingly and said ‘Welcome to Thailand.’

They call it International, but it only flies to Bangkok.
First taste that not everything in Thailand is what it seems...

The sun that is causing those shadows is not the same
sun that  I knew from Saskatoon.  This sun is stranger.

                                  

Mena Suvarinamaboomi?

           Mena Suvarnaboomi

Space age Bangkok airport.
               Maybe the culture shock won't be so bad...

I was sitting in Bangkok’s new airport and it was certainly much bigger and more modern looking than the one where I had drank my last Tim Horton’s coffee back in Saskatoon. Hell, the name was even longer, Suvarnamaboom, or something like that. It seemed to be spelt differently everywhere I looked. I started to feel shaky and uncertain. I was having a kind of first world meltdown because many of my pre-conceived third world notions were quickly evaporating.

 In order to steady myself I perched on a hard grey bench, directly in front of a monstrous air conditioning unit, and focused on faking a desperate need to rummage through my carry- on bag. A clean cut, middle age man in a collared yellow shirt sat down beside me. I heard a quick snippet of a song I didn’t recognize and he reached for his cell phone from his back pocket. His cell phone was certainly smaller, and more modern looking, than any one I had seen back home. With a quick tap of his index finger he answered the call, put the phone to his ear and said, ‘Hallo?’ What followed was such a quick flurry of Thai that I did not recognize one word. Well, besides the word hello, which I had spent the past two weeks attempting to learn to speak in Thai, a lesson which was now proving completely unessential.

 I was starting to realize that perhaps you can’t really prepare yourself for Thailand while you are walking through snow covered streets in Canada. Point taken.

             
             The truth is that during my entire time in Survanamaboom (or whatever it was), I had stayed very close to the original grey bench of refuge.  The positive side was that it was in a quiet part of the airport with only two gift shops and a row of five coin operated internet machines nearby. I had created a comfortable area using my extra long sleeved shirt wrapped around my Lonely Planet book as a pillow. My carry on was wrapped around my wrist for added protection and my passport and credit card were safely stored under my shirt in one of those lame money belts that had me patting my stomach every five minutes like an expectant mother.

            I wiggled into a comfortable position pulled the sleeve of my shirt over my eyes and tried to lull myself to sleep with positive thoughts about the new direction my life was taking. I imagined myself inspiring classrooms of eager children, reading books under coconut trees and swimming in clear waters surrounded by colorful, playful fish. My shoulders relaxed and I slowly began to drift off into a hopeful, dreamy sleep.

It was only after a few moments of peaceful sleep that the enemy presented itself. It eased its ice-cold fingers up the back of my shirt, taking full advantage of that seductive inch of skin that reveals itself between your shirt and your jeans once you slightly bend your knees. The monstrous air conditioner was on full attack. I tried to tuck my shirt into my jeans but as soon as I nodded off, the inch of skin would reveal itself and those despicable icy fingers would, once again, creep slowly up my spine. After an hour of this, I was tired and angry, angry enough to flee my original grey bench and see what else this place had to offer. 

The restaurants were all shut down and there were very few people actually moving about in the airport. I had full access to whichever sleeping area I wanted. The only problem was that each bench I encountered was accompanied by it's looming, hideous partner. I spent the night with my extra long sleeved shirt stuffed in the back of my jeans and my head directly on my Lonely Planet guide book. When I woke up, I swear, my drool was frozen to the cover.

A Really Big Oyster.

   So I went home. Cried on my Dad's shoulder. Panicked. Realized that without the boyfriend I had no direction. I could literally do anything that I wanted. Anything. I will admit my weakness here. I tried to go back. I back-peddled hard. In a shameful bout of fear I made a last ditch effort to save the relationship. I called. I cried. I may not have begged, but I had very little shame. Shockingly little.

Big girls cry.
 They cry  longer, harder and uglier.

   This is where the boyfriend gets all the credit in the world. He knew I wasn't ready. He recognized the relationship, not as true love, but as a direction for me. A life preserver in a sea that I was fearful of navigating on my own. He stayed strong. He stayed kind. He said no. I will always be grateful for that.


   So I acknowledged my truth. I could do anything. But what exactly did I want to do? Step one would be moving out of my parent's home. Seemed logical. Move where? As far away as possible seemed like a good first step.


 Some of my friends had taught English overseas. I  had all the pre-requisites. I was a native speaker and I had that B.A degree that was proving rather worthless in the workforce back home. This would be a way to use the degree and get a chance to meet Adventure face to face. I had worked in residential children's camps for the spring/summers of the past 5 years. I knew I could teach and most likely do it well.


  So in my brain it was settled. I was moving to a foreign country. I would be a teacher. I settled on a continent that seemed to provide decent money for these services. Asia. I had never been. Even though I had nailed the continent down there are were so many countries in Asia and besides the typical stereotypes and the traditional foods (by traditional, I mean the foods that were on the menus in the 'ethnic' restaurants in Saskatoon.) I had no real idea of what lay ahead of me in any of those countries. Now, instead of the world being just a huge baffling oyster I had narrowed it down to a continent. Which wasn't helping too much.
   
Then my beautiful best friend, Erica, whose shoulder I had cried on innumerable times, and who was well aware of my little self-indulgent, existential crisis emailed me a job ad she had found. It was for a Language School in Surat Thani, Thailand.


  Traditional town, close to the beautiful exotic beaches, short hours, and cute kids. I sent my resume. Two weeks later I had a ticket in my had.


 I closed my eyes, steeled my stomach and slurped that oyster down.

These taste better as metaphors.

Puppy and Grizzly Poo

With me it started when my ex-boyfriend bought me puppy. I had graduated from University with an Honors English Degree. It was no surprise that that expensive piece of paper gave me no dramatic insight into which direction my life should take. So I did what many girls do..... moved in with the boyfriend. 

  He lived in the Rocky mountains. It seemed adventurous enough. Got me out of Saskatchewan (a mere one province over, but let us not be petty!) I was ready for my genuine adult life to start. Not in the dreamy way of some girls.... oh, when will he propose?.... when will my uterus become a warm mucousy den for a youngin'....... but more in the way of Adventure. I was ready for an introduction.

Instead we cooked pasta. It tasted good. I tried to fight the inertia and climbed mountains alone. That was wonderful, but I had done it before. And it still seemed too safe (except for that one time when I had to stick my finger in the Grizzly poo and found out it was still warm.. ). We started fighting. My sense of waiting for Adventure and never hearing him knock at my door was making me impossible to live with.  But I stayed. I didn't realize I was attempting to seduce adventure with subtle eye contact and bashful smiles, when what Adventure really digs is when you grab him by the hand and pull him into the bedroom. And besides the pasta tasted so good.

Then one day the boyfriend showed up with a little bundle of joy. A black lab cross with the sweetest eyes and the most endearing stumble run you ever did see. I showed it love (what kind of person can hate on a puppy?), I took it to the mountains. I jogged with the little stumble runner, but  to me it was a symbol of boring. A cute little reminder of approximately 12 years of commitment. Blarg. 

You make me happy.

Then one night I indulged in a few to many Rye and Gingers. (I was working on a new theory that Adventure was actively into courting drunk chicks). The boyfriend decided to go out and visit with a friend. I was pouting in bed in one of those ridiculous self indulgent funks that possess me from time to time. Then I heard the cute little yippy bark of the pup. Needed to go outside. I got up and did my own little stumble walk towards the front door. Then I saw the pile of cute little doggy poo. I stuck my finger in it. Cold. That means the boyfriend had actually stepped over the poo to leave and did not pick it up. 

I stood there for a while and then, with the cute little doggy poo still under my fingernail, I went to the bedroom and began packing my bags.

I made the decision. I was going to take Adventure out on a date.