In a decade I wonder whether I’ll be looking back on fond memories of places I’ve lived, people I’ve met, cultures I’ve experienced, or if there’ll be some vestigial regrets lurking behind, a feeling that I hadn’t seen and done all I could’ve, that I hadn’t made the most of my life out on the eastern fringes. I’ve started to notice the presence of roadblocks in Thailand. Athwart the path I wish to travel, they stifle my destination. There are signs, however. Signs which light the way down strange new paths, where new horizons are waiting to be discovered.
Saw Notre Dame Cathedral a few days ago. Beheld the majesty of its French architecture. I’m not writing this in a posh French hotel however. In fact, I’m several thousands of miles away from France, and a couple of thousand miles away from Thailand. But more on that later.
A lot has transpired during the interim following my last entry, chief among which are: Songkran; a brief jaunt over to the island of Koh Chang; a longer excursion to Europe; a towel throwing-in episode with my employer; a re-evaluation of my life in Thailand, and taking the next step in my Asian journey.
Let’s start on a jovial note. Songkran is an annual festival celebrated across the entire breadth of Thailand. It marks the New Year on the Thai calendar, a very different (in number but not in reason of origin) calendar to ours: 2016 on the Western calendar marks the two thousand and sixteen years between when Jesus Christ was born and now; Thai’s have a different faith, Buddhism, and their calendar proclaims the year to be 2559, signifying the birth of Buddha.
On its surface, Songkran could be considered the world’s longest, largest water fight, with millions of revelers enjoying three days of getting soaked and soaking others. Four Thai boys straddle a clapped-out old bike sardine-style (the driver can’t be older than twelve) all armed with water pistols targeting pedestrian passersby. Hose-pipes snake out of bar fronts filling large barrels of ice water into which roadside combatants dunk buckets and drench motorcyclist and tuk-tuk alike. Frenzied make-up girls dart around smearing white powder onto wet faces. Glooping clowns emerge. Millions take to the streets of Bangkok, and the craziness that ensues is an experience like no other found on Earth.
Decided to get into the thick of it, on Khaosan Road, where the East meets the West - a decision soon regretted. While we spent the earlier part of the day hastily refilling our Supersoakers and joining the fray, when the shadows lengthened one had to jostle for elbow room, and soon after I was ensnared in a powerful current that washed me adrift from my friends. Knowing the situation was futile, and my comrades lost to the sea, I tried to wade my way out, but inevitably got caught in a bigger swell. Noticed then a guy gliding through the waves, the people before him parting like the red sea. Managed to bull my way over and get into his slipstream. Then noticed the genius; he was doing an extremely convincing impression of throwing up. Followed suit, and my new Polish friend soon saw me to safety where I could escape the tempestuous waters and clamber aboard a tuk-tuk. It was too much in the end; Glastonbury Festival times ten.
On a more symbolic level, Songkran represents purification and the washing away of ones sins. For a lot of Buddhists anyway. But, as is the norm with many a festival, there seemed to be a lot of sinful goings on during those three days. On a cultural level, I felt that it summed up sanuk (fun) and the general playful nature of Thais.
Once extricated from the madness of the capital, bussed it down to Koh Chang in the South-East for the final day of Songkran. Koh Chang literally means Elephant Island (when viewed on a map, its shape does mirror the head of Thailand’s national animal). Here it was a much more sedate affair. We still drenched groups of tourists in their open-back taxi trucks, which was pretty hilarious, but were now able to do so with a freedom of space, a bar to regroup, and a beer to hand. Coupled with some picturesque sprawling on White Sand Beach, and some bar hopping along the road parallel, it wasn’t a crazy mash up like Koh Samui, but more of a pleasant retreat.
But too soon it was over and back to the slog. And work had become a hell of a slog these days; too many hours, too little pay, praise, or reward for doing a good job. The only reward felt was from personal accomplishment and from what my students gave back to me. Was counting down the days to my longer trip home.
At the beginning of June, after two flights, fourteen hours spent at thirty thousand feet, and a maternal reunion at Heathrow, we set down in Zaragoza. We were in Spain for my brother’s wedding, and the cathedral city was where Christina (his now wife) grew up. Though not somewhere you’d probably visit on the tourist trail, it had its charms, and a very authentic taste of Spanish culture. Not to mention food; think I could happily live on selections of tapas for breakfast, lunch, and supper for the rest of my life and not get bored. The hotel and wedding venue were awesome (here I have to thank my mum for sponsoring an otherwise impecunious son - and getting him from A to B – as well as the organisers/financiers of the wedding), but more than anything it was great to have the family all together in such an unlikely location. My cousins, Tom and Josie, came from Hong Kong, I came from Bangkok, the rest came from various parts of England, and we all ended up in the middle of Spain! Only weddings afford such large number, long time, long-distance reunions, and it was a great experience. Had to carry Faye, my younger sister, back to the hotel at 3am before the contents of the night decided they’d rather make a swift exit from whence they’d come. It ushered in memories of my earlier days of drinking. She won’t thank me for mentioning it in this blog, but it was pretty amusing.
On a more serious note, I think Dan and Christina make the perfect couple, and hope they’ve enjoyed their honeymoon in the States. Also, kudos to the father, who produced a flawless speech (in Spanish!) during the meal which will definitely go down as his best of all time (probably because it wasn’t in English!).
So then it was back to Bristol to see the old pals. Bryony, being the darling and best friend anyone could ever hope for, set me up in a very homely fashion at her new abode, mothering me constantly (thank you Bry, I needed it!) The plan was to have a good mash-up at the local, followed, the day after, by a big old get together meal. The first part went well, but on the morning after I awoke fever-ridden and bedbound. The meal was called off. I was gutted, especially since Bry had put in a huge effort.
The flight back was an unpleasant twelve hour convalescence, and though work started off well on my first day back, I walked out four days later and didn’t look back. It boiled down to an incident at the private school I worked at; the spoilt brat school. The guy covering for me refused to ever go there again because their behavior was that atrocious. I had them better tamed, but there was still one class that was a nightmare. I’d made several requests to the management for an assistant for said class, all which fell on deaf ears. My last ever lesson in Thailand was teaching this class, when a little shit said ‘Fuck!’ to my face. Clipped him round the ear and threw him out. Had to discipline half the class before I could get round to the teaching part, but finally, for the first time ever, I had a silent, attentive class. Of course, the next morning, I had this psychotic Thai father threatening to have me arrested. My company tried forcing me to grovel and apologise, and for me that was the last straw. Walked out, and next day sent off for my Vietnamese visa, booked my flight to Ho Chi Mihn City (Saigon) and then was gone. Didn’t get to have a proper farewell with a lot of my new friends there, but I’ll be back, if only for a holiday, so know I’ll see them again.
Ho Chi Mihn somehow feels both more westernised and less modernised than its Thai counterpart. It doesn’t boast the titanic shopping malls, skytrain or underground of the Big Mango, but the indelible mark left by nearly a century of French colonial rule can be seen everywhere. You can buy filled baguettes from vendors on every block, walk down major roads beginning ‘la’ or ‘le’, see beautiful architecture a la Francais such as the imposing nineteenth century cathedral. And yet despite the lack of a mass transit system, Saigon’s traffic flows infinitely more smoothly. I put this down to the overwhelming volume of motorbikes and a general free-for-all at busy intersections. And I thought it was crazy in Bangkok! For the uninitiated tourist, a whole new green cross code has to be adopted; instead of darting between speeding cars, one has to wade cautiously (not to mention fearlessly) out into the oncoming torrent of motorbikes. Then, like a rapids flowing around a canoeist, the river parts and makes way. And as long as you stay on a true course and row at a steady knot, you’ll reach the far shore unscathed. Beware of crossing speedboat-style however, as you’ll likely capsize and drown. As in Thailand, they have zebra crossings, and as in Bangkok, these striped road markings are only a vague suggestion of where to cross; don’t expect road users to take any heed.
It’s cooler on this side of the Indochina peninsular, which comes as a welcome relief. But also wetter, especially with monsoon season getting under way. The currency, Dong, takes a bit of getting used to. One Pound is 30,000 Dong, so I was a millionaire as soon as I left the currency exchange. It’s deceptive, because the highest denomination note is half a million Dong, which sounds like you’re loaded, but it’s only about seventeen quid. On the whole though, that half a mill goes a long way.
Spent two days touristing around Saigon, then, via an extremely useful and appreciated contact from the last job, managed to set up an infinitely more professional interview than the joke which had come nine months previous. What followed was my subsequent integration into a company where teaching standards are not only maintained (the Western way) but actively encouraged to be elevated. Knew within a minute that this was the company to work for. There was one downside however; they drastically needed new teachers for their Bien Hoa branch. This is a city about forty kilometres North-East of Saigon. It’s not out in the sticks, but you still wear the luminous green jacket of the Westerner and attract curious gazes everywhere you go. Think if I’d come here straight from England, it’d be too different for me to settle. Having had nine months to adjust to South-East Asia though, reckon I’ll stick it out in Bien Hoa for at least six months, and then, if I’m feeling the pull of the bigger cities, can always do an internal transfer.
It’s places like this where you get more cultural verisimilitude than you would hanging out in ex-pat and tourist-heavy zones, and I’m going to try and take full advantage of this. And if it doesn’t work out for whatever reason, I can just hop over to another country. You have that freedom over here, the freedom to chase new horizons whenever the urge takes you.