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Are tiny brown ants bad for laptops? My desk is teeming with them. They crawl along the iPod wire and they race around the edges of the laptop screen and they dart underneath the keys. I chase them, my fingers smack the keys. It spells nothing. They are a bit distracting but it’s nice to have some company. They don’t care if I wear a shirt.
My clothing is fully alive, nearly self-realized. The least odorous dries on the balcony rail. The others are downstairs with a pair of shorts, rubbing around inside a machine. This is their first machine ride in a month. I wonder if they are giggling. Are my t-shirts ticklish? Are my shorts stoic?
I’ve developed a certain bond with other creatures of the world. There are very silly geckos who dash for the ceiling or behind anything when you walk into a bathroom, or down a hall at night or, well, just about anywhere I guess. There’s a sort of humor when, standing up from a massage on the beach, I see my electrolyte beverage is now covered with ants, lots of them. When the waterbug makes his nightly appearance, it’s always a fresh new show, very fast and exciting for everyone. I don’t think to kill any of them. I’m heavily outnumbered.
There’s a guy from Calgary who doesn’t mind any of the insects or reptiles, but moths send him into hysterics. His girlfriend thinks it’s cute. She’s afraid of spiders.
Back to my friends the ants. They have overstayed their welcome. I may be about to make a big mistake, but it needs to be done. I’ve sprayed insect repellent on nearly everything else, why not the laptop? … Deet can stain some parts of a laptop. It now looks like I was frying bacon next to the touch pad. Otherwise, all is well. Unless, of course, you’re an ant who once decided it was a good idea to climb all over a laptop in Laos.
Get me to a border crossing, any border crossing is fine. Expired visa. Already too far for Malaysia. Is Vietnam easy to get to? Must I go through Cambodia? Will I backtrack? How much to fly? I say easy ten times to the woman. She sits next to the counter where I got my Thai SIM card. I trust them. I say easy again. She parrots, Easy? and declares my next destination, Laos. I’ve heard good things. How soon can I get out of Khao San hell? Tonight. I spend the day lost, wandering the streets of Bangkok. I get funny looks sometimes, but not many.
There is a certain enjoyment in folding myself into various positions on a bus. Once I’ve achieved one of these fancy yogic postures, I “sleep”. Sometimes I don’t even recline the seatbacks, just to see if I can do it. Overnight, there is nothing anyone wants to see. The driver barrels down on motorcycles and compact cars, they whisper close secrets fender to bumper over a dotted white line and no one is the least bit phased. So we sleep and don’t look.
A single border crossing can have many signs. Some say $30, others say $31, others say 8am others say 9am, others say Saturday and Sunday, others still say other things that make absolutely no sense at all. Sometimes there are conversations about it which make even less sense, if that’s possible. Each window wants something from my pocket. I want to leave two days late, my pocket. I would like to enter your country, my pocket. No, really, I’d like to come in today before 9am, my pocket. No, I don’t happen to have a 3x4 photo of myself, my pocket. I want to walk over there where the bus is, my pocket. I’m not sure why I’m giving you this dollar but you have a booth and a uniform and I don’t think it would be any cheaper at this point to turn around and go back, my pocket. They smile and explain that it’s three because today is a holiday. I don’t ask which one but I expect it’s the famous reach-in-your-pocket holiday. Quite enjoyable actually.
Whiling away the days on Koh Phangan, it’s easy to loose track of time. An hour can be a day. A day can be two or 
three. A moment can be a lifetime. I watch the tide go out and my day unfolds. I watch the tide come in and another cycle begins. On the other side of the world I hear good news, I hear bad news, I hear no news. Life goes easy and hard at the exact same moment and I contemplate humility. I smile because it makes more sense than anything else I’ve tried.
My pedestrian day. The attendant dispenses another 40 baht into the motorbike tank. A guide on a longtail boat smiles more than any person I’ve ever seen, he is a champion at poi but will never mention it to anyone – that was a different time. Iodine, alcohol, gauze, bandages, tape help to doctor a pretty girl’s toe torn open on a dance floor beach. A thousand lost pairs of sandals sunbathe in the morning; their owners will come to retrieve them and they will never be found. Another dejected thousand un-paired flip-flops and birkenstocks gawk at the couples, their own mate has staggered off for breakfast, for sex, for drink, for fun, for a ferry back to another place – the moon begins to wane. Life carries on.
Boxed up long pants and sweaters are sent on a three week journey home for the cost of twenty nights in a bungalow. Mysterious rashes were never the cause of ant work but instead too little water. Smelly t-shirts remind me of varsity letters earned years ago in high school. Mastery of contortionism with two seats on the top floor of an overnight bus gets interrupted by a night market pit stop, time enough for a piss, mystery food, a smoke and another conversation. The ride ends. Find shelter for the night in Bangkok. I could strap the bag to my back, but there’s pavement and sidewalks and ramps and it is hot and I am hot and I use the wheels and I feel smart because I’m lazy. I still don’t have dredlocks. I can shave without a mirror.
Initech seems far away now. It’s nearly capable of being romanticized. It seems a long time ago, but that is just the experience fattening that silly goose, time. The jarred nerves from corporate life are rebuilding. Gradually that little kid is starting to show up a little more often. I notice small changes in me. Changes from being further removed from the captains of modern business or changes from being closer to something else, I don’t know. And, yet, as far as I may be from making pushpin designs in the soft fabric walls of a cubicle, it returns to me each day, an undeniable piece of my personal history.
People love to ask questions and want lovable answers. They want to know, it helps them. Helps them identify. Helps them talk. Talk helps them feel there somehow, alive somehow. ‘What do you do?’ They love the ring, the tone, the sound, the rhythm of the words as they bubble out of their mouths, ‘What do you do?’
What do I do when? Now? Then? Next? I want to ignore the question. Pretend I never heard it. Act like I have no intention of answering. It means nothing, really, what do I do? But it’s important for one reason or another and I know I will answer. I want to say ‘I’m an escort.’, ‘I’m a hand model.’, ‘I work for the witness protection program as a location scout.’, ‘I’m in the witness protection program’. But these are not the truths and in my own pursuit of the truth or something that feels a little honest, I am compelled to give the straight answer. And I am lost for words.
How do you say I did all these things and each one has a title but I never really was any one of those things and I really don’t do any of that anymore I hope? How do you give them enough so that the innocuous conversation starter what do you do doesn’t turn to seed-pulp in an instant. Some words have bad effects; corporate, technology, information technology, sales, education programs, nausea, glaze-over, All the words have their shortcomings, so I tell them honestly of my jack of all trade nature with the best title I can muster. ‘I’m the Prime Minister of the United States living in exile in Canada.’
They chuckle. They want to talk politics. I refuse. They forget about what I do because for now, I make funny. They want to talk politics – politics are funny. I refuse. They want to talk about the US and Americans and dirty little things. I refuse. They remember and ask ‘What do you do?’
Are we not the culmination of our experiences? Our lives are shaped each day by what we do, our actions. Once they occur they become what we’ve done. We hand people things and ring them up at cash registers. We make fittings that will be examined by experts. We write emails that make something happen which causes a little more or a little less stress. We screw up, we sit in meetings, we work weekends, we show up late, we win awards. Things we’ve done. In polite conversation they turn to what we do. But in polite conversation we don’t want to know what someone has done. We don’t want to know the details of a TPS report. We want to have some way to move the conversation along, share something interesting for a change. We want to meet escorts and drug dealers and witness protection program scouts and presidents and kings and prime ministers.
What do I do? For now, I hope. I hope for sun and more rain to cool it off. I hope to never experience dehydration again. I hope my flip-flops don’t blow out. I hope if my flip flops do blow out I wont hum Margaritaville while I hobble over the hill. I hope to meet more interesting people who after a day we will hug and be comfortable with our shared honesty. I hope for another text message to make me feel like the luckiest person alive. I hope someday the notes and the watching will come together into something interesting that helps someone making pushpin designs in a cubicle somewhere live a slightly better or happier or sillier life. That’s what I do. I hope.
On this tiny dive island in the Gulf of Thailand, motorbikes race up and down the streets of the main town. Other than that, there is no sign of hurry. Expats control the way and their eyes watch with detachment the silly antics of the newly arrived tourists. They are lucky, some might remember, that even though they are tourists, they are mostly here to dive. Diving tourists are more sensitive to the reefs both under water and those on land. Unlike many locations not far from here, there are no busloads of frantics anxious to rush by art and edifice, pausing only to snap a photo or buy a trinket. They are lucky, but that does not minimize their slightly superior pose. It exists everywhere, I suppose; dominant coffee house buzzards in Greenwich Village, self-righteous non-smokers on the patios of La Jolla, style commanders draining perfect martinis in the air conditioned safety of South Beach. And here, amidst simple bungalows dotting palm covered cliffs, it is hard to take it too far or too seriously. It is beautiful and easy and friendly. It’s sad to think that in ten years it may be prostituted to Burger Kink and Starbucks. The Hyatt’s will bring their exclusivity and profit margins will be analyzed against other resorts and quality control will be enforced by policies dreamt up in an industrial park in Horsham, Pennsylvania.
I am too new to say how the Thai’s fit in here. Perhaps it is only to provide an example of how to smile and let it all happen, no matter what it is. It would take a few months, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime to peel back the layers to see how the pieces connect. There is no purpose in that, though. Better to come, enjoy, take a little, give a little, and hope someone in my footsteps may take an afternoon to listen to the breeze or watch the ballet of butterflies in a slightly imperfect garden while waiting for the rain to cool off this dot of sand.
Pretty girls abound in Thailand - especially the ones who have been dipped in gold.
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nope, I'm not meditating, just got zapped by the flash. On the other side of the doors behind me is the Emerald Buddha, one of the most holy items in all of Thailand.
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Bangkok. Not really as foreign as I anticipated. In fact, it’s pretty much like any other place I’ve been. Well, sort of. For some reason I had it in my mind that I would be stepping into a very unfamiliar land where I would be absolutely at the mercy of whoever would take pity on me. In actuality, it is nothing like that at all. I found my way to Khao San Road, searching for a budget place to stay. I expected to find sort of an Asian version of Bourbon Street or some similar place in Prague, but in reality, it’s more similar to Canal Street than anything, except there are far more white people here than there are in Canal Street.
In Steven King’s The Talisman, there is a character called Wolf – briefly, he is the specie of which the legend werewolves is derived. Wolf refers to the world we live in as ‘the land of bad smells’. I think of Wolf often here and hope for his sake he never comes to Bangkok; his senses would simply not be able to handle it. It’s funny though because there are times when it smells really nice and then just when you are thinking, hmmm, this is nice, is that yellow rose incense? Or fresh jasmine flowers? The tables turn and you are infused with a smell that I find suspiciously similar to some of the ‘experiments’ I’ve grown in the back of my fridge – you know, the ones that kick in the gag reflex as they get dumped down the sink. This smell can be purchased, apparently in a bowl or on a stick.
In all fairness, Bangkok seems like a decent place and I have explored only a small fraction of it. I’m very glad that I’ve stayed out of the Sukhumvit district. From my conversations with people this is the heart of the sex tourism area. I know I won’t be able to avoid witnessing this pimple on the Thai culture, but I fear it will sadden me as most red light districts back in North America and Europe do. And on a happier note…
The Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew must make the Vatican City green with envy (no pun intended – Wat Phra Kaew houses the very holy Emerald Buddha). The gold and semi precious stones that guild the many buildings of this site is simply outstanding. Unlike the cathedrals of Europe, there is far more texture to the intricate mosaics that adorn the stupas in Wat Phra Kaew. Instead of all the tiles being flush with the façade, many stick out to form little lotus flowers or some other decorative flair. I spent a good 5 hours here and could have spent more had I used a little common sense and eaten a good breakfast before heading out to this spot. Of course, I ran into my favourite deities, the Garuda and this certainly made me feel quite at home.
In both the Grand Palace and the Royal Regalia, Decorations and Coins Pavilion, I found the plaques are virtually useless. There is rarely mention of when something was made and most of the information is written in Thai. I had a pretty good time chastising myself for forgetting all of my studies in Buddhist lore while strolling along the longest mural I have ever seen, nearly 2000 metres. The mural depicts various classic Buddhist themes and stories and I could figure out a couple, but most ended up being impressive on an artistic scale only. Of course, with my vivid imagination, I had a pretty good time making up my own version of the story, but I did yearn for a guide from time to time – well, about half way through I thought, ‘sure, they have guides, spend ten years in a Buddhist monastery and you might get the stories straight’. Also unlike Europe, I found it hard to hijack other guides (you know, listen in on their discourse) and when I did, their explanations seemed, frankly, a bit shallow.
Once, in a museum in Florence I was a parasite to one guide who was so knowledgeable and I got such a tremendous education I felt compelled to give her a tip or pay her normal fee outright. In contrast, in the Grand Palace today, at one point I was tempted to start reading aloud from the free brochure while a guide was reciting it nearly word for word to his customers. I didn’t mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass the guy and didn’t feel it was necessary to point out to the tourists they had been rooked.
Hunger eventually caught up with me and I headed back to the familiar territory of Tr. Khao San. I was very pleased to find the place called Pannee where I sat for three hours eating, watching, drinking and eating some more. After 3 hours, I decided it was time to leave, asked for my check and nearly fell out of my chair – 360 Baht. That’s pretty cheap for 3 hours of drinking and eating. Especially when the food is so tasty and the service is attentive in that special Thai way of being attentive while ignoring you. That’s hard to explain so let’s just say, if you come to Thailand don’t get your britches in a bundle just because the waitress has spent the last half hour setting up a stand across the street. That’s just the way it works and if you need her, cross the street and say hello, otherwise, enjoy your time here on earth. I know I certainly am. Love you all – even if I don’t know you.
I guess I forgot to add in all the stuff between Kitty joining Gillian and I and heading off to southeast asia. Oh, well.Needless to say, it was, as it always is, an absolutely terrific trip. No wonder they are my favourite people. Gillian likes them too!
Are tiny brown ants bad for laptops? My desk is teeming with them. They crawl along the iPod wire and they race around the edges of the laptop screen and they dart underneath the keys. I chase them, my fingers smack the keys. It spells nothing. They are a bit distracting but it’s nice to have some company. They don’t care if I wear a shirt.
There’s a guy from Calgary who doesn’t mind any of the insects or reptiles, but moths send him into hysterics. His girlfriend thinks it’s cute. She’s afraid of spiders.
