I was in the market shopping for stodge when the rain started.
‘Dear Rice, I no longer require your services. You have served your purpose fairly efficiently but I have to confess that if you dare have the gumption to appear on my dinner plate again I will locate the nearest chao na and beat the fish sauce from his pores. Hey, rice! You see this potato? I’m going to bake it, half it, stuff it full of chips, pop it between a pair of thick granary slices and gannet the fucker! Start taking notes rice and grow some fucking balls’.
Initially the light precipitation served as a thoroughly welcomed break from the torrential humidity, as my taxing front-crawl through the market place turned into a leisurely breast-stroke.
With potatoes, bread and beef purchased and ensconced in various orifices of the Honda Wave, I decided that the rain was gentle enough to endure and should I wish to arrive home before the world was instantaneously plunged into darkness – ‘Oh, we should really think about taking our next holiday in the tropics, darling! Wouldn’t it just be so romantic to watch the sunset every evening from a beach with palm trees and coconuts!’ Do what, retard? You do realize that sunsets in the tropics last for about five seconds and are generally just shit, don’t you?! ‘ – I surmised I should leave this minute.
Some 50 billion kick-starts later with the choke open nigh-on to the point of being ripped from its housing, I finally elicited some life from the motorcycle and chugged my way past the late evening shoppers who were busy sniffing and prodding at recently deceased insects. No sooner had I exited the stall bordered avenue, the rain decided to immediately upgrade itself to that of ‘tropical monsoon storm’. I glanced back at the clutter from whence I came and saw that the whole fucking market was airborne. Huge parasols which were present to protect the vendors from the unrelenting Issan sun were now serving as projectiles, fish who had previously thought they’d shortly be making up the lion’s share of a sea food platter were now merrily swimming down the street and an assortment of fruit and vegetables were congregating in drains and gutters.
Before you could say ‘I’d rather be in North Korea’, day turned into night as a cloud the size of Bulgaria sort an appropriate parking space.
With this, I obviously only had two avenues I could explore:
a) Find the nearest pub and get totally fucking obliterated before passing out in a gutter.
b) Drive home, 15 kilometres, on a beaten scooter laden with groceries, in the dark, in the eye of a bastard hurricane.
Naturally I opted for (b)..or certain death, if you like.
Donned in only a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I strapped my helmet on tight, bowed my head against the oncoming surges of rain which were so fucking powerful that it felt like I was being assaulted by an Uzi, and began my journey home through the baron country lanes.
Of course in my haste I forgot a rather important piece of information. The bike had next to no fuel in it – and petrol stations were extremely few and far between.
The first few kilometers were relatively unremarkable. A near miss with a ditch, here, an impromptu swerve around a fallen tree, there, a handful of twats who didn’t feel it necessary to turn their main beam off, here and an unprecedented gust of wind there which nearly saw me fucking fly home, there. My visibility was no more than about 4 feet and my eyes were closed some 70 per cent of the time. Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t have shit on me that night. I was driving home, in a tropical storm with my fucking eyes closed! Beat that Yoda!
Half way or so through the trip and I’d just negotiated what I considered to be the most testing section of the route. A steep climb which almost hairpins towards the top where a Buddha can be found. I gave him a ceremonious chorus of beeps and toots in recognition of making an unhindered ascent and carried on. Only seconds later did the important piece of information that I’d neglected to remember, register.
FUCK IT – FUCK IT ALL ON A MAJOR FUCKING SCALE!
I managed a few more metres before the gasoline vapour ceased to assist me any further.
This was most definitely not part of the plan. At first I tried to push the bike along whilst still seated, but it became so tiresome and wearing that I ended up inadvertently swallowing about 5 litres of rain water, so I was resigned to get off and push the fucking thing. The road still had a slightly ascending trajectory which made me swear that little bit louder.
Oh, wait a minute! Why didn’t I think of that before? I’ve got a perfectly good telephone in my pocket! I’ll make a quick call to the Mrs. and have her bring me a bottle of petrol! Problem fucking solved! Fantastic, I’m great again..
I fished around in my pockets and first to come out was what use to be a packet of cigarettes. Bollocks, I can’t have a cheeky smoke while I wait now. Out next came a sodden assortment of bank notes which were all but perished. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. Finally, out came the telephone, a very wet and very broken telephone. In the heat of pure anger and frustration I think I tried to consume the fucking thing, ‘I’m gonna eat you, you BASTARD!’.
Calming down and carrying on I decided to make the best out of an incredibly bad situation and look on this whole ordeal as some much needed exercise, and indeed there was only a mere three or so kilometers to the next gas station.
After a solid 30 minute yomp, I finally reached the petrol station which was of course closed. ‘Oh no you fucking don’t, you twat’ I said to nobody in particular and wheeled the bike onto the station’s forecourt. From under the metal shutters of the adjoined building I could see the flickering of a television. I wearily slammed my open palm against the shutters whilst shouting ‘give me some fucking num mun, you lazy bastards, it’s only half past fucking seven’.
Fortunately I knew these people so they were quick to react to my plight. Next issue was the fact that my money had evaporated and I had no currency to pay them with.
I looked at Uncle Somjit sternly in the eye and with my last ounce of patience, barked, ‘TOMORROW!’
Got home, had a shower, cracked a beer and laughed.
Fucking country..