I had my stitches removed about five minutes ago. Due to a mishap with a fax, I will be here until Thursday at least. I have to fly through Russia on Aeroflot now because the route through Uzbekistan runs only twice a week. I am not sure what's worse: Uzbekistan Air or Aeroflot. I will try to flirt to upgrade my ticket. I was on my way to the beach south of Bangkok with my friend and his family when I received the call to head back across Bangkok to the office. I might jump on a bus and meet them there in a few minutes. The Thai New Year is tomorrow, and who likes to be alone on a New Year? The traditional celebration involves throwing buckets of water on one another all day long.
I have been propositioned by both male and female prostitutes since I have been here. The notion of being ashamed of one's sexuality, straight or otherwise, is nonexistent here. The Thai people are progressive concerning such matters. I will start with the less provocative account of the female prostitute's advances. She was staying in a room about three doors down from mine. I had just showered when I got her first call. I was confused and thought that she must have meant to call out of the hotel and forgot to dial the initial number 9. She wanted to know where I'm from and how long I will be here. She asked me if I was alone. Then, she started on about how she was in Bangkok to look for work and that she was lonely. I explained that I was unfortunately on my way out the door. I cordially ended what had went from pleasant information exchange to an odd confessional on her part. The second call came about five minutes later. Forcefully, unapologetically, she offered me herself in her room. I politely repeated I was just leaving but thanks, it's really too much, though. The next afternoon she had laid a garland of jasmine on the lampshade near my bed with the help of the cleaning ladies probably. The room smelled fresh and holy but, one layer beneath this transcendence, was the earthly smell of sweaty summer sex work and recycled hotel air.
I warn the Christian reader that the following account may be disturbing. I was working on a few postcards and writings in a bar. I was encouraging an appetite with a strong gin and tonic, concentrating on the stylistics of postcard writing. I finished up what I had planned to do. I looked up to discover a dark, skinny Thai boy with a lazy eye and faux bling who was staring intently on me. He had two cell phones, a sure sign of sketch. He offered to buy me a drink. Why not? I knew where I stood on the issue, which involved the visualization of a chastity belt or static confusion where my genitals once were. Never pass up a free drink. I sat and started a conversation with a girl who was sitting to my left; she was eager to practice her English. That was when the boy started to grab my thigh. I told him to stop. I continued conversation with the Thai girl about the masochism of working at the Hard Rock Cafe in central Bangkok. The boy glazed emptily at one of the phones, which phone I wasn't sure. I had not yet discerned which of his eyes was actually working, a task that requires some sustained eye contact and interest. He turned to me and explained that he works with a dance company as a promoter, that there was a party for us to go to. I explained that I was actually on my way back to the hotel. I noticed his drug-induced twitching and bad teeth at this point in the conversation. And that's when he went in for a kiss. I rejected. He didn't understand why. First, I am not interested and, second, I never kiss hookers at an upscale bar in the middle of a new city: That, simply put, would be social suicide and nothing less. The girl from the Hard Rock passed me a note that read: "Trust no one in here." The Thai boy finally cut the bullshit and explained: "I normally charge money. I am money boy. But I want to suck your dick in the bathroom. No money. Then I take you to party." I felt dizzy like throwing up and threw back my drink while moving to the other side of the waitress from the Hard Rock. This represents a typical Sunday night for me in Bangkok.
The number of these such incidents, conquests, and reemergences from the depths over the last two weeks cannot be comfortably or concisely summarized.
I dreamt that I was at a house on the Cowley Road in Oxford. It was Sophie's house where we used to party. Sophie loved reading Baudelaire, pretty boys and losing her mind on the weekends. I started climbing through windows and boxes, moving in unknown dimensions. I was falling sometimes through segmented tubes filled with viscous ether. It ended in Kyrgyzstan, possibly closer to the end of a tube of viscous ether than people realize. I had a dream that people there hated me for being gone. Their eyes were empty with rage. It is probable that I was just having a flashback to any of the teachers' holidays where everyone drinks a bottle of vodka, stops making sense, and staggers home to recover for the next two days. I woke up with anxiety about heading home, so I drank a cup of coffee and wedged myself onto the metro during commuter hours. I had to run. I tried to forget where I am and how far away it really is.
I saw about twenty Japanese transexuals check into my hotel yesterday. I have seen transexuals in Bangkok that helped me understand how drunk imperialists on Silom 4 take home men, thinking that they're women. I wonder how many of them realize that they've paid to have anal sex with a transvestite in their hotel room after 14 pints of Singha. Their wives are at home in Mobile, Alabama watching Lifetime specials and microwaving instant meals.
I have spoiled myself. I have resurrected personalities that I thought were long under my submission. I took liberties with people and their generosity while I was here. I placed myself in situations that I essentially had to flee from in metered taxis. I ate dim sum at a charity dinner for free and had gas for two days. Every plate had some type of liver in it.
I bought a fake Sony CD player. Send me mixed CDs if you love me.
And in the end, I am still the scared kid in the middle of Asia who wonders what's next. It seems like I have been running for a long time. When will I stop being a nomad? I will be on an airplane on Friday afternoon.
(Written after a hiatus.)
I made it to the bus station. I was planning to take the bus and even bought the ticket when I found out that I would have had to sleep in the port city until six in the morning to wait for the early morning ferry. I decided to go shopping for food and final items from Tesco.
I talked to my parents on the phone who were relieved to hear that it was just scabies again. I mentioned on one of my one minute answering machine messages that I should be the spokesperson for International Scabies Bureau (ISB) which need not be confused with IBS, Irritable Bowel Syndrome. After two weeks of spicy Thai food, alcohol, and stress from medical appointments, I could questionably be a candidate to represent this medical problem as well. I literally have been the most outspoken advocate of scabies that I know of and am frankly unashamed that I have been harboring the parasites for nearly eight months if the dermatologist from Yale's calculations hold up. I wouldn't mind becoming the spokesperson for medicine to treat scabies even.
When I showed up at the hotel tonight, I decided to pay for my telephone calls. I asked how much I owed. After about three minutes, the man answered with the total of 14,000 Baht about $500. I had had a long day moving across Bangkok on a series of Red Bulls and little food. Furthermore, Tesco was a mess with everyone stocking up on their supplies before the holiday. I explained to the gentleman that he was "out of his mind" and that his total was just "insane." I remembered this lady at the retirement home that I worked at over the summer in California called Louise. She had designed the spirograph, which was originally used to determine the fallout from bombs during the WWII. She had developed dementia, ate jelly on all of her food, and loved ice cream. If we didn't give her ice cream of jelly, she would say, "Well, that's just crazy." She always said the same thing. Sometimes she would see pigeons on the rooftop and take them to be ducks migrating. Anyway, I added up the total of the phone bills, which was closer to $15. He was confused and thought that I was paying for everything. We resolved the misunderstanding shortly thereafter.
I am awaiting a response from D.C. about a request for the government to fund a new mattress, pillow, and a laundry service in the capital. I will just reinfest myself if I use the same bedding that I was using before I left. I guess that I would be willing to buy the stuff myself; that money could go to nobler causes like a boombox for my classroom or speakers for my new CD player.
The person to the left of me is videochatting on gay.com with a man who's balding. The person to the right is on adultfriendfinder.com; she must be looking for a date for the New Year. I am ready to return to my conservative, Muslim world where the most sensational thing to happen is the Tajik baker showing up to the house loaded on a bottle of vodka having had sex with his hooker in the nearby town. The most unpredictable thing is having dinner a half hour earlier than normal. So many people around me in Bangkok are very naughty. My thoughts center on how I am going to pick up the pieces of my English classes to plow through the next two months of school. Based on what I have written, I could probably be denied immigration in the entire Central Asia region. I have an advantage in that few people who live there who would want to kick me out have fluency in English. Departure from civilization: 36 hours.-MJ
