You'll notice that this story is bereft of pictures. That's because my camera was stolen. Along with my passport, cash, credit cards, and my new friend's pants. But now I'm getting ahead of myself.
I landed on the island of Patong, Thailand a few days after Christmas. I suffered 24 miserable hours in that squalid city. I had to search for Thai food amongst the tourist traps, and the best I found was in a food court in the basement of a shopping mall. I ordered pad kee mao, or drunken noodles, and a fruit smoothie. The noodles were bland, and I threw them out. I slurped down my smoothie - it was refreshing, and I was glad I'd ordered it.
I tried to find a spot on the beach to drop my blanket and then my jaw at the turquoise water, but before I had a chance to sit down, I was asked to leave: that area is for customers who want to rent a beach chair. I asked where I could go. The young Thai guy shrugged. The whole beach is for customers.
I shopped for a while before trudging back to my dirty hostel room; I'd sprung for a single, private room, and it was as much a disappointment as the beach had been. I tried to fall asleep early - I had a 6am ferry the next morning. I fell asleep until midnight, when Patong becomes a city-wide rave and frat party and circus in one, and lay awake listening to drunk tourists dare each other to take a shot of this liquor or that. It's fortuitous I was already awake and that I had my own room because at 3am cramps gripped my insides and propelled me to the toilet with such force I hoped everything was still intact. I spent the next hours plopped on the toilet.
By 6am, I didn't care that I was exhausted and still sick. I was so excited to get off the damn island and on to Koh Phi Phi. I met a guy on the ferry; he was American and reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I'd finished it a few months prior and asked how he was enjoying it. We talked for the rest of the ferry ride, and he asked if I'd like to have dinner when we were settled on the island.
We meandered from one bar with Thai boxing to another with karaoke, and we drank too many cocktails and laughed especially hard at our jokes. We ignored a no-trespassing sign and hopped the adjacent fence onto a private beach that arched to the other side of the island. We took in the full moon, and ran our toes through the warm water. We had another drink at a closing bar, and I said, "Let's run into the water. Let's go for a swim." It was 4am, and he said yes, and so we shed our clothes - he stripped down to his boxer briefs, and I stripped to the bathing suit beneath my dress- and we piled our clothes, and my purse, and the contents of his pockets on the sand, and we ran screaming into the water.
We made out for a while - and he was the absolute worst kisser in the history of mankind, and all the booze in my system couldn't change that fact, and so I fibbed that I was cold, and let's head back to our hostels. We emerged from the beach, the moonlight illuminating our way to the pocket of sand where we'd stripped, but nothing was there but the indentation from what had been; we'd been robbed.
We searched for hours. Bar owners came down with flashlights to help us look. Our things were gone. We couldn't do anything until 8am when the police station opened. We trekked back across the island, him with his hands over his goods. Since he'd lost his key, and I had held onto mine, he stayed in my room. I offered him the only shorts that would fit: a pair of yellow boxers covered in smiling faces.
As I was dozing off, he reached a hand down my pajama pants. And then he said, "We can salvage some of this night" in a voice that tried to be sexy but was repelling and disgusting, and I nearly slapped him in the face but settled for his hand, and said, "Hell no."
Less than an hour later, I crawled out of bed, trying not to wake the other three sleeping guys in the room - did I mention I was in a shared, co-ed dorm room? And as I stepped down from the stairs on the bunk bed to the floor, cramps seized my stomach, and I ran to the bathroom, the shared bathroom, with 4 sleeping men in the same room. I closed the door, turned on the faucet to cover the sounds, and I finished off the toilet paper right as another round hit. What was I going to do without toilet paper?
I turned on the shower.
You do what you gotta do.
After I showered, I quietly left the room and made my way to the police station. I filed a report - of course, they didn't know anything, and I dejectedly retreated back to the hostel, mentally making a plan of what to do next: get to a US embassy, see if I can get money back from the hostel or borrow money from someone else, renew my Japanese work visa; there were a million things to consider.
As I began climbing the granite stairs to the hostel, another waive of stomach cramps flooded my body, and my stomach flooded my pants. I stood shocked, my mouth open. I was standing nearly on top of an island, with the beach below me, four men in my room, and poop in my pants.
I feigned forgetting my key and having to go really bad to use the private bathroom in the hostel lobby, and I cleaned up as best I could. As I walked out, The Road Guy was walking down the street in nothing but those yellow boxers, and I thought, well, pooping my pants and being robbed and all, that sight makes my day.
As I was packing my bags and preparing to beg someone to borrow money, the hostel owner came into my room and said, I have your bag up front. I quizzically looked at him, confused - how in the world did he know, and could it be my things? When he handed me my purse, I fought tears and hugged him with all my might, thanking him profusely.
"You're lucky," he said. "A fisherman found it thrown in the bushes. He's the only one on the island who speaks English, and he took it to the only American who works on the island. She found your picture ID and called around to find you. It's fate."
I hiked up the hill to The Road Guy's hostel, and I knocked on his door. I handed him back his shoes; his pants had been taken for good, along with my camera and cash. I stuck out my hand, and he shook it with his.
"This night will make one hell of a story," he said. "But I hope we never see each other again." I nodded my agreement, a tinge of laughter in both of our eyes.
I took one last look at him as I walked away and yelled back, "You can keep the boxers."
I landed on the island of Patong, Thailand a few days after Christmas. I suffered 24 miserable hours in that squalid city. I had to search for Thai food amongst the tourist traps, and the best I found was in a food court in the basement of a shopping mall. I ordered pad kee mao, or drunken noodles, and a fruit smoothie. The noodles were bland, and I threw them out. I slurped down my smoothie - it was refreshing, and I was glad I'd ordered it.
I tried to find a spot on the beach to drop my blanket and then my jaw at the turquoise water, but before I had a chance to sit down, I was asked to leave: that area is for customers who want to rent a beach chair. I asked where I could go. The young Thai guy shrugged. The whole beach is for customers.
I shopped for a while before trudging back to my dirty hostel room; I'd sprung for a single, private room, and it was as much a disappointment as the beach had been. I tried to fall asleep early - I had a 6am ferry the next morning. I fell asleep until midnight, when Patong becomes a city-wide rave and frat party and circus in one, and lay awake listening to drunk tourists dare each other to take a shot of this liquor or that. It's fortuitous I was already awake and that I had my own room because at 3am cramps gripped my insides and propelled me to the toilet with such force I hoped everything was still intact. I spent the next hours plopped on the toilet.
By 6am, I didn't care that I was exhausted and still sick. I was so excited to get off the damn island and on to Koh Phi Phi. I met a guy on the ferry; he was American and reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I'd finished it a few months prior and asked how he was enjoying it. We talked for the rest of the ferry ride, and he asked if I'd like to have dinner when we were settled on the island.
We meandered from one bar with Thai boxing to another with karaoke, and we drank too many cocktails and laughed especially hard at our jokes. We ignored a no-trespassing sign and hopped the adjacent fence onto a private beach that arched to the other side of the island. We took in the full moon, and ran our toes through the warm water. We had another drink at a closing bar, and I said, "Let's run into the water. Let's go for a swim." It was 4am, and he said yes, and so we shed our clothes - he stripped down to his boxer briefs, and I stripped to the bathing suit beneath my dress- and we piled our clothes, and my purse, and the contents of his pockets on the sand, and we ran screaming into the water.
We made out for a while - and he was the absolute worst kisser in the history of mankind, and all the booze in my system couldn't change that fact, and so I fibbed that I was cold, and let's head back to our hostels. We emerged from the beach, the moonlight illuminating our way to the pocket of sand where we'd stripped, but nothing was there but the indentation from what had been; we'd been robbed.
We searched for hours. Bar owners came down with flashlights to help us look. Our things were gone. We couldn't do anything until 8am when the police station opened. We trekked back across the island, him with his hands over his goods. Since he'd lost his key, and I had held onto mine, he stayed in my room. I offered him the only shorts that would fit: a pair of yellow boxers covered in smiling faces.
As I was dozing off, he reached a hand down my pajama pants. And then he said, "We can salvage some of this night" in a voice that tried to be sexy but was repelling and disgusting, and I nearly slapped him in the face but settled for his hand, and said, "Hell no."
Less than an hour later, I crawled out of bed, trying not to wake the other three sleeping guys in the room - did I mention I was in a shared, co-ed dorm room? And as I stepped down from the stairs on the bunk bed to the floor, cramps seized my stomach, and I ran to the bathroom, the shared bathroom, with 4 sleeping men in the same room. I closed the door, turned on the faucet to cover the sounds, and I finished off the toilet paper right as another round hit. What was I going to do without toilet paper?
I turned on the shower.
You do what you gotta do.
After I showered, I quietly left the room and made my way to the police station. I filed a report - of course, they didn't know anything, and I dejectedly retreated back to the hostel, mentally making a plan of what to do next: get to a US embassy, see if I can get money back from the hostel or borrow money from someone else, renew my Japanese work visa; there were a million things to consider.
As I began climbing the granite stairs to the hostel, another waive of stomach cramps flooded my body, and my stomach flooded my pants. I stood shocked, my mouth open. I was standing nearly on top of an island, with the beach below me, four men in my room, and poop in my pants.
I feigned forgetting my key and having to go really bad to use the private bathroom in the hostel lobby, and I cleaned up as best I could. As I walked out, The Road Guy was walking down the street in nothing but those yellow boxers, and I thought, well, pooping my pants and being robbed and all, that sight makes my day.
As I was packing my bags and preparing to beg someone to borrow money, the hostel owner came into my room and said, I have your bag up front. I quizzically looked at him, confused - how in the world did he know, and could it be my things? When he handed me my purse, I fought tears and hugged him with all my might, thanking him profusely.
"You're lucky," he said. "A fisherman found it thrown in the bushes. He's the only one on the island who speaks English, and he took it to the only American who works on the island. She found your picture ID and called around to find you. It's fate."
I hiked up the hill to The Road Guy's hostel, and I knocked on his door. I handed him back his shoes; his pants had been taken for good, along with my camera and cash. I stuck out my hand, and he shook it with his.
"This night will make one hell of a story," he said. "But I hope we never see each other again." I nodded my agreement, a tinge of laughter in both of our eyes.
I took one last look at him as I walked away and yelled back, "You can keep the boxers."
This.is.hilarious. It was the damn smoothie. They are delicious. And deceptive.
ReplyDeletewww.bonvivantdc.com/blog
YEP, definitely the smoothie! For weeks after, I thought it was the noodles, and I felt sick when I saw them... it was the greatest moment of my life when someone pointed out that the smoothie probably had contaminated ice or water in it! I'm glad it's really funny now... in retrospect... :)
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