Part 7 of sweaty bunch

OPENING the bungalow door onto a brand new afternoon, dressed in a recently purchased vest which proudly exclaims 'Fuck you you fucking fuck" (why, we have no idea at present), a pair of shorts which double as bathing wear and another recently purchased pair of crappy sandals with too many straps and not enough velcro, we step onto our balcony and take a dry (or should I say damp) slap from the midday sun.
In laymen's terms, it is an absolute scorcher, as are the majority of days here, and it takes some getting used to if you hail from a land where the Summer's usually last no more than 15 seconds.

In a very brief moment of clear thought (the heat and remainder of the Thai breakfast on our heads allow us to think in short, sharp bursts only)we retain the concept that we are infact on a small Island and being in such a place we can't be too far away from that big, blue wobbly thing, yes, the sea.. thats right..so in order to submerge ourselves in water some what denser than the pathetic trickle from the shower in the bathroom we head gingerly down to the big, yellow gritty thing, yes, the beach... thats right.

"YOU WANT MASSAAR?" says a lady who appears to be several thousand years old. We weigh up the pros and cons of such an offer.
Yes, we would like a massage, we would like to have our corns and calluses pummaced, we would like oil rubbed into our buttocks, we would like to be pampered for 90 minutes for the price of a pint of beer...but hang on..lets look at the cons... this lady is bloody fossil like, we're still recovering from the Thai breakfast and this massage table is surrounded by hordes of tourists...SHIT..what if we get a boner?!

We politely decline the offer of the 'massar' and head down the big, yellow gritty thing with a view to find a suitable spot, preferably shaded, so we can make occaisonal sortees into the big blue wobbly thing .

Our journey is halted when a rastafari gentleman uncouthly barges into us and says in a total fuck up of the cockney accent, "you want rent jet-ski, mate?"

No, pros or cons need weighing up this time as we subconciously touch our exhausts burns from the market stall incident and remember how we don't really fair too well with rented transportation.

THIS GRITTY STUFF is becoming a bit of nuisance to walk on.
We find ourselves aping Neil Armstrong's first moon walk and hastily find a spot to plonk down our weary behinds, dig out our books and watch the parade of food and beverage sellers hauling there wares up and down the beach.
We decide to interupt a purveyor of sweetcorn.
She squats down beside us and pulls a charcoal lit barbeque from behind her back, we marvel at how on earth she is still alive.
A few minutes later and our freashly cooked sweetcorn has been devoured, the effects of the Thai breakfast slowly relenting..and...what's this, that chap's got an ice box of full of beer balancing on his head..

Erm, excuse me? waiter..?


Part 8 of a sand in crevice saga

THE SUN rapidly sets, creating a momentary enlightened path out into the sea until the horizon.

Restaurant and hotel owners appear as quick as the sun set and start smoothing the sand infront of their respective establishments ready for tables, chairs and lanterns to be brought out for the tourist's dream scenario of moonlit dinner on the beach.

Feeling like we've malted a skin; revitalised after the anxieties brought on by the fucking Thai breakfast, we decide that we'd perhaps fancy a night on the tiles.
So, after putting 3 large empty bottles of beer Chang (literally beer elephant) into one of the scarcely provided bins, we head with great purpose back to the wooden shack that the owners have the audacity to call accommadation.

The majority of sand removed from every single crevice that the average human body possesses, short sleeve shirt and jeans on, some fairly heavy beads of sweat coutesy of the 3 beer elephants on our brow, we do a double take on the room and snigger before heading out, what a shithole!


BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM


The music greets us even before the ladies of the night do. But it's not one song from one bar/pub/brothel (however you wish to call them) but 20 songs from 20 different bars, all doing their best to drown one another out, both musically and vocally.

"WHERE YOU GO?", enquires a young lady dressed in cut off denim shorts that virtually leave nothing to the imagination and a tight vest which serve as home for a rather small, but seductive nonetheless, pair of mamory glands.

"Where you go?".... Until the end of the Second World War, Thai people did not have an official way to simply say 'Hello'. Instead they would use one of two phrases upon greeting each other; 'Kin khao ruu yang' (have you eaten yet?) or 'Bpai nai' (Where you go?).

After the King of Thailand returned from a trip (or from studying) in America he decided that an official word for 'Hello' should be introduced, which is how the Thai word 'Sawasdee' (Hello) came about.

Where we go indeed..

A few bars later (for there is a row of about 20 of them), we fall victim to an incredibly good looking lady and are sufficiently moved to sample a few beverages in her place of work, which is probably called something like 'the upto you bar' or 'the sexy eye bar' or 'the butterfly bar'..all names completely lacking in originality.

We decide to play the game and buy the beautiful girl a drink, she chooses a Bacardi Breezer, the most expensive thing on the menu, as an old lady dripping in gold behind the bar (the mammasan/owner/boss/pimp) gives her a discreet approving look..we don't understand or really acknowledge the look because we have the beautiful girl's hands in our pants.

Then the conversation starts and it's like someone has pulled a chord in her back (ala a child's toy) and like a robot she starts spewing questions.."where you from, what your name, you like Thailand, you have lady, you have lady Thai"..then when the chord from the her back has run out of steam the questions stop and no, we don't wanna play fucking connect four..

We carry on down the strip and visit a few similar bars and are asked similar questions.

That night we are Sadam from Iraq, Elvis from Memphis and Clark Kent from Metropolis...

and no, we still don't wanna play connect four!!


Part 9 of a sordid little tale

BACK in the wooden shack which I suppose also doubles as a bungalow if you stand outside and look at it in a certain angle, we awake with a mouth that feels like we've frenched kissed one of the many stray dogs that can be found in the area (read into that what you will), a sore throat from answering the relentlessly, mundane questions of some 700 young ladies and a head so heavy we are sure we have passed away and been reincarnated as a cast member in The Night of The Living Dead.

Earlier that night we are introduced to the 'shotgun blast to the head' effect that is a Sangsom set. This comprises of a bottle of Sangsom ( A Thai Rum which is distilled from sugar cane and a whopping 40 per cent proof), a bucket of ice and a mixer, which normally comes in the form of Coke or Redbull - Thai style Redbull is actually sold in a medicine bottle and drinking too much can often result in your heart beating like a fucked clock.
A friend of mine had to go to the hospital after over indulging one night and they put him a course of strong beta blockers - a small bucket which is normally used for ice is also provided with the set.

RATHER crassly, we dump all the components into the empty bucket as instructed, give it a little stir with our finger and greedily suck up this surprisingly drinkable mixture through a straw.

Upon completion of the set, we are outrageously drunk and are now on first name terms with everyone within a 1 km radius.
There was Frank, a bank robber from Mile End, Gus, an ex serviceman who couldn't really talk much about his prior vocation (but he did anyway) John, a lorry driver from Northampton and June, a prostitute from Sakhon Nakhon......Sakhon Nakhon...Sakhon Nakhon..Sakhon bastard Nakhon

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT

A bare brown backside greets our sudden head movement in the direction of the left side of the bed. There in all her tanned, naked glory is June, a prostitute from Sakhon Nakhon.

We gag nervously as we scour the room in vain for any sign of contraceptives, our tackle looks and feels used, swear words circle in our brain as we nearly pass out. Brief respite comes in the form of a glorious bottle of Beer Elephant on the floor beside us, the cap has already been removed but the majority of the beer is still present, we slurp at it and light a ciggarette whilst mentally preparing a few question of our own.
Young June is about to be taken to the station for some serious enquiries..

SHE wakes and looks over to us, god only knows the intial picture the poor girl is greeted with, a nerve stricken young man drinking warm beer at 9am.
This seems to make no impact and she offers us a beautiful smile which lights up the delicate features of her face...bad news, we were obviously in porn star form last night then.

"June", we say,"do you know about HIV?"

"Hahahahahahahaha" she quips in retort

"No, seriously", we continue, "I worry a bit about HIV"

"ahhhhhhh, hahahahahaha"...she's obviously not the brightest of sparks

We decide to use the bad cop scenario

"Have you got HIV??"

"Why you worry, last night you no work, remember, you no power hahahaha"

We breath an extremely animated sigh of relief and kiss June on the forehead, as passionately as a forehead kiss could ever get, before she wraps herself in a towel and enthusiastically starts sweeping the floor of the wooden shack.

We watch her work whilst finishing the warm beer, not sure what to make of this enigmatic, but incredibly beautiful and friendly girl.


Part 10 of a "very expensive beer"

THREE YEARS LATER we find ourselves surrounded by dense jungle on top of a mountain.

We are donned in a large, almost mexican style hat with an old t-shirt protecting our face from the blistering sun; only our eyes are visable, eyes which over the past three years have bore witness to owning a bar, getting married, a sincere death threat from the fourth motorbike shop owner (seriously) and an even more sincere one from the local mafia, we have many friends, we also have many enemies, we have dabbled in the ridiculously dangerous world of narcotics, we have sampled enough beer and vodka to float a small navy, we have left the Island a grand total of zero times and we have no idea where we will go should that day happen...


Part 11 of an insect infested anecdote

THE FIRST THING we notice about the jungle is that it moves. The trees move, the bushes move, the floor moves..hang on, why is the floor moving? Floors are meant to be stationary,surely, unless of course we're standing in the preliminary stages of an earthquake...earthquake...EARTHQUAKE!

Momentary panic subsides or heightens (can't remember which) when the floor starts fucking biting us..what the...?
We quickly glance down at our wellington boot covered feet only to find the site of hundreds of red ants completely hiding any trace of the black rubber that the footwear is comprised of.

It was a full on sortee into enemy territory ( which in this case comes in the form of our right leg) by a very upset and vengeful troop of 'Mot Daeng' (literally, ant red).

But these 'Mot' aren't the shy and retiring types you see loitering around the sugar bowl in your kitchen, oh no, these are big, bad beasties with a severe pyschotic disorder.
They would bite so aggresively that upon swatting them off, they would not allow their grip to weaken and literally leave their whole head and pincers in the skin of the recipient of the mauling.
So after swiping our hand down the length of our leg, we'd be left with 20 or so heads and pincers still doing their subconcious best to inflict pain upon us.

These bastards were the bain of our life in the jungle, we would meet them several hundred times a day. Similar to the tookays and gecko's though, we discovered they have their uses.

Firstly, we had to become familiar with the living arrangements of these homicidal lunatics. We'd obviously prefer to avoid them if possible.

So there we are, with a blunt machete which we'd often attempt in vain to sharpen with the limestone plynths which made up our floor alot of the time. Swinging our way through the virgin jungle in order to make the vegetation more manageble for us to work in.
A tropical storm a welcome break from the scorching heat which proceeded it.
We swing our machete with style and panache, an overhead swipe here, a horizantal blow there and the odd upper-cut which is an energy saver on less stubborn undergrowth.

Our 'style and panache' come to an unexpected and very sudden halt when we discover the favoured places of dwelling for the "mot daeng'...

In trees

In nests

The size of bastard basketballs

The nest lands on our head, plum, dead centre, spot bollock.

Thousands and thousands of the clinically insane insects have now only one intention and focus, to inflict pain with a view to kill..and we are the subject of their agression. Not the nicest situation to be in.

We strip down to our bare backside franticly pulling the angry red fuckers out of our mouth, ears, nostrils, arse hole, fore-skin and every other crevice that they feel like launching their attack on.

So, there we are, at the top of a mountain, in thick jungle, rolling around on the floor, stark bollock naked in the middle of a tropical downpour.

God, what we'd do for a hot cup of tea and some chocloate digestives now.

These 'mot', as mentioned before, do have their uses, for both culinary and medical purposes.

For eating, we must first locate a nest and making sure we don't repeat our naked mot dance in the rain, light a fire under it.
The nests can be anything from 5 to 20 feet from the ground so the size of the fire depends on the height of the nest.
Once lit, the heat of the fire will gradually work it's way up to the nest and thousands of ants will fall to the ground, like a tropical 'mot' shower.
After a few minutes the nest will be free of 'mot' but still very much intact (that's why the size of the fire should vary).
We then shimmy up the tree and retrieve the empty nest, for it is now ready for consumption.
The leafs of the nest are peeled back to reveal a thick mass of white eggs, 'mot eggs'.
Take a leaf and lick the eggs off for a fine source of protein. Round these parts we call it Issan caviar.

For medical purposes, we must think back to the aggression of the 'mot'. They leave their pincers and heads in the skin, even when their bodies are absent, almost like a single stitch?

Indeed, for when people are produced with a ridiculously large bill for having a minor lasceration sown up, it'd be a damn sight cheaper but probably a touch more painful to drop a 'mot daeng' nest on the wound and let them do the work.