The Poisoned Clementine – Journey to Laos

Last Sunday, I made pilgrimage to a supermarket carpark in Bangkok. My mission: to book myself onto a mini bus bound for Laos, so that I could re-enter Thailand on a new visa. We had been directed to meet under the big Tesco sign, just off the On Nut BTS station. There was a group of men sat around and several white vans parked up near by. I approached a fellow who looked friendly enough. Most people in Thailand, it must be said, look, and are, exceedingly friendly.

“Visa run to Laos?”

He took our passports and we dumped our bags on the back seats – once a back seat bad boy, always a back seat bad boy. It all seemed very casual, very non-official. Anyone with a van could park up there and collect passports and cash from foreigners and then drive off. That can be my backup career.

We handed over a little under six thousand baht. The bus started to fill up. A Russian woman took the seat between me and Chloe. Poor dear. In front, a bald-headed German man with no eyebrows, who had just finished a month-long stint as a monk. Then, a rather weasel-y looking, but ultimately friendly, British man, a student beside him, Middle Eastern, and then, right by the driver, two of the largest gentlemen I’ve ever seen in my life. They were also Russian, and wore tiny vests and shorts stretched tight over their ridiculously huge muscles.

We set off and I immediately downed a sleeping tablet that had been recommended to me by a more experienced runner. Soon enough, I was completely knocked out.

If  he dies, he dies. But I must have my protein shake.

Around two hours later and the lights came on. We pulled into a service station and our friendly driver opened the door. “Twenty minutes”. I didn’t want to get off but he seemed quite insistent, and so I stood outside, feeling a little chilly for probably the first time ever in Thailand. The two Russian men popped open the back of the van and retrieved protein shakes, which they would proceed to knock back at every stop we made along the way. They also ate a prodigious number of bananas. It was a wonder they could hold them without smushing them to bits with their giant sausage fingers.

I didn’t really know anything about Laos before my trip. My main source of knowledge was King of the Hill and the Souphanousinphone family. I know next to nothing still, except that it’s Communist, the language is very similar to Thai, and they seemingly don’t have 7-Elevens there.

After the ten-hour journey, we arrived at the border to Vientiane. The crossing itself involved nothing more than remaining in a permanent state of semi-confusion, and being pushed around by bored and exasperated Thai people, who just wanted you to get your act together and sort yourself out. They did a great job I must say. Everything went smoothly, and I would recommend the service to anyone, because I can’t imagine where you’d even begin the process alone. There was a lot of waiting. A lot of boredom. Stamping of forms and general bureaucracy. In time, everything was done, and we were taken to a hotel.

(null).jpgI couldn’t tell you what it was called if I wanted to. I was so tired, confused, and done in. They featured this photo of Laotian Barry Chuckle a lot around the place. That could be a clue.

We had been promised a swimming pool, not that I’d brought my costume, but we found that to be empty. I was given a room key, 103, and I sloped off to go and collapse on my bed. I fell asleep and awoke an undetermined amount of time later.

“Great,” I thought, “It must be about five PM by now, I can go and have tea and then it’ll almost be bedtime.”

I checked my phone. It was 9 AM. I’ve never felt so lost in my life, time wise. Two days on an aeroplane didn’t do that to me.

The room itself was grim and smelled badly of damp. In the photo below, you can observe what I presume to be ancient Moorish architecture above the bathroom door. Surely not just some fancy cinder blocks. The TV played only loud Laotian static. A knock on the door. It was Chloe. The Wi-Fi didn’t reach her second story room. She took my spare bed.

I’m not sure what we did that day. I know how I looked though. It’s how I always look in such greasy, desperate situations. There is a requirement, not always enforced, to dress “respectfully” when dealing with border officers. I can appreciate the rule. I wouldn’t want to be dealing with Russian muscle men in tiny vests either. Personally, I wouldn’t have let them in. Anyway, knowing this, I tried to look a little smart on my trip. I wouldn’t want a stained T-shirt to stop me getting back to Chach. Knowing I was to travel, I had also worn my comfiest underwear. So the ingredients to the recipe – greasy hair, big underpants, failed attempt to look smart, happy, and incredibly compliant.



I’d said to Chloe that I had no intentions of making any friends on this trip. I’ve been socialised out, and I have enough friends now (three, at least). I couldn’t be arsed with chitter-chatter. Unfortunately, it’s rife on these runs. Everybody is bored and alone and has nothing to do. Chloe said she felt the same, but she can’t help herself. She loves socialising. “Where are you from?” and all that. I disengaged. I could not be moithered. I am the unmoitherable man. Time progressed. Rice for tea. Rice for breakfast.

We crossed back to Thailand without a hitch, travelling across the beautifully named Friendship Bridge. I even managed to pick up a Mars Bar from the duty free at the border. It’s sat in my fridge now. I can’t bring myself to open it because once it’s gone, it’s gone. The Russian girl sitting next to me on the bus offered me a clementine. I don’t know for sure if it was a clementine, because I’m in the habit of calling all round orange fruits oranges, because I don’t know the fucking difference, but I’m going to say clementine, anyhow. I accepted the friendly gesture with smiles and gratitude, and I ate it. I then became incredibly paranoid that it had been drugged. I grew up watching Cold War media. In my adult life, I’ve met perfectly nice Russians, but for a large part of my existence, I’ve had the nagging feeling that all Russians are spies who are out to nuke me and will do anything to achieve that goal. I imagined that she’d injected it with something whilst hidden inside a squat toilet cubicle, and would wait for me to pass out back at the Tesco car park, before dragging me off to harvest my organs or sell me into slavery. Evidently, as you’re reading this, none of that happened. Yet more proof that the Russians might be OK.

I’d booked a hotel to stay in the night we returned in Thailand as I knew we’d arrive back at On Nut late. We tried to walk to this place, and were making a very good job of it, before we were chased away by wild dogs. I walked off, as steadily and calmly as possible, as they nipped and growled mere paces behind. Once we were back to the main road, I rang the hotel.

“Sa wat de ka. Do you speak English?”

“A little,”

“I have booked a room at your hotel but I cannot get to you because of the dogs,”

“… Is OK. Dogs OK,”

“No, they are barking, and they chase me. I cannot get to the hotel,”

“Dogs not scary,”

Now, at home, I would agree with him. I love dogs. I just don’t love the rabid kind that chase you up back alleys.

“Dogs are scary. Do you have a car you could send?”

“No. No scary,”


“…OK… one moment,”

He put the phone down. He never called back. I tried to explain the predicament to a taxi driver, who only smiled and nodded, as they always do when they have no idea what you’re talking about. I could have been saying “I’m a big heroin monkey, take me to Narnia so I can cover Mr Tumnus in rich creamery butter,” and I’d have had the same response. To be fair, it’s what I do when I can’t tell what Thai people are saying to me.

We give up and get another taxi to take us to soi 11, because it’s a place we sort of know. Obviously, we don’t know it too well because we arrive to find it thick with prostitutes. You couldn’t move for them. We wandered between them, and their pimps, and the creepy men pushing them into cars. After failing to find a room, we returned to what we had previously dubbed Bates Motel, and passed out there.

I awake around three AM and jumped out of bed.


Chloe bolted up and switched on the light.



I had awoken from a dream in which we two, and another teacher from our school, were sleeping rough in Bangkok. Chloe went along with the whole thing because she also does weird things in her sleep. Two people both fully believing the same delusion. I stopped and looked around.

“Wait. I think we’re OK. We’re in a hotel room.”

“Oh right,” said Chloe, “OK.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s OK.”

We both got back in bed and immediately fell back asleep. Perhaps there was something weird in that clementine.


The Dance

Goodbye to Koh Samuii

I don’t have nearly enough knickers. Let’s just start out with that. I have packed so, so badly. The only clothes available on this island are tiny shorts, made for women with the hips of malnourished seven-year-olds, and vests with beer logos on them. But that’s OK, because by this time tomorrow, I’ll be on a ferry to Surat Thani, and then catching the train back up to Bangkok. I should arrive at 6am in a second class sleeper berth. What could go wrong?

Bathing Beauties

The Thai people are very still very smiley and polite, when they aren’t trying to push in front of you in the 7-Eleven queue. You can’t walk down the street without saying “Sa wat dee ka!” (hello) ten times before you’ve hit the first Family Mart. I’ve been called “sir” more times in restaurants than I care to count, which I suppose is meant well. I think I was called “sir” when a bottle of Heinz ketchup unexpectedly exploded in my face as I unscrewed the lid, or maybe I’d gone deaf from the shock and was subconsciously filling in the blanks. I was told it was something to do with a build-up of gas within the bottle rather than a carefully premeditated, deliciously saucy, assassination attempt. I suppose I’ll choose to believe that, even if it does sound a bit vague and unscientific, it’s more comforting that way.

There have been a few other off-colour moments. Chloe and I were lying on the beach when one of the many salesmen approached us carrying a board full of bracelets on his shoulder. He looked us up and down and formulated his best sales pitch.


He didn’t make a sale with us that day. Still, that offence somewhat paled (ha) in comparison to the salesman on Chaweng who approached me to say, “BEYONCE! YOU BIG BUM LIKE BEYONCE!”.

“Thank you,” I said, as I rolled over and slunk back into the sea to hide beneath the waves, my confidence and self-esteem as buoyant as ever… which is to say they were both lying somewhere at the bottom of the ocean covered in fish shit. It’s fine. If I maintain the same levels of rampant diarrhoea I’ve been experiencing thus far, I should weigh around seven stone in five weeks. And I’ve sort of learnt to curl my hair. If my legs didn’t currently look like they belonged to a bloated corpse that was just pulled out of a house fire, I think I’d definitely qualify as a strong 3.5/10.

I did some teaching. That was fine. I was dreading it, walking to school at 7 am, passing all the tourists in their swimming costumes, in my button-up shirt looking like the world’s most pissed off Mormon. The kids here are quite enthusiastic and really enjoy any activity where they get to touch or hit something. Give them some dice and they go absolutely mental. It was actually a lot of fun. It definitely came to my attention that I say “Ooo” a lot. I’d say it whenever someone dropped something. I’d say it if someone wrote something incorrect on the board. The kids would laugh every time and imitate me. Imagine Alan Partridge saying “Ooo mince!” without the “mince” part. It’s an incredibly camp reflex that I struggle to repress.

14225565_10154514980647238_8617030659960161487_n.jpgI asked later if anyone could help me with a new catchphrase. The only real suggestion was to add “get her!” to the end of my “ooo”. Doesn’t really help with the campness but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi. I think I should be able to adapt pretty quickly. I made my own Bose speakers here out of a toilet roll. I’m the Bear Grylls of the hotel world.
Moving to a new continent forces you to become crafty and all make-do-and-mendy. It’s all holey underwear, and scrubbing the sand out of your bikini-top in the sink, and acting as your fellow teacher’s retarded donkey slave in the lead up to your teacher practices, as you glue flags to a big piece of card to create a board game that will make a class of eight-year-olds lose their shit.

So, school’s out. I’ve graduated from Samui TEFL with distinction (“Ooo get her!”). Teacher practices, tests, dealing with other TEFLers who don’t really speak English and have a very loose grasp on social norms – it’s all done. This is pointless to say, but there is so much I’d love to share here, and I really can’t. It’s too soon. I need to get a few thousand miles between me and the subjects of my stories. The most exciting one involves a naked Filipino girl climbing into a gay man’s bed and refusing to leave – I know he won’t mind me sharing that. He looked haunted in the morning. I’m sure in some parallel universe, she chose another room, and something completely different happened. This is how I know I must be living in the most excellent universe that there is. Another favourite secret story involves a lesson delivered by someone who fundamentally failed to grasp the basic concept of what it means to teach the English language. Oh, if only I could say more… if only. (What a goddamn prick tease).

Graduation Buddy

For the first time in four weeks, I felt a bit down last night. It was the dance. All my classmates are leaving the island, either alone or in twos and threes, flying or ferrying off to their next destination. The dance always leaves me feeling depressed. I have no doubt it’s all down to me, and my own madness, and is no reflection on the integrity of anyone else. I’m difficult to get to know, and awkward, and very particular. Generally, I either click with someone straight away, or just end up as some weird Mark Corrigan type on the fringes of social circles, piping up to answer the odd trivia question and to make semi-witty, snarky comments. What I mean by, and let me break out the italics again, the dance, is the set of expected social interactions one is required to perform upon parting with people you’ve been spending any amount of time with. It makes me feel disingenuous. “We’ll see each other soon!” (we won’t); acting like you’ve gotten on much better with each other than you ever really have.

I am weak. I decided I had to join in. I danced and I shall, no doubt, dance again. I approached a leaver and said, with my most convincing smile, “Goodbye! Be safe. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

I received a rather flat reply. “We’ll all be very busy. People say that, but we probably won’t”.

I shook my head as the person sashayed away. Well I never, I thought, the bloody cheek of it, if you won’t do the dance, then neither shall I.

Update – 18.49: A melancholy feeling has settled over our hotel. It’s all quiet and empty. Some new people, starting the course on Monday, have shown up to take the rooms which were formerly occupied by friends. Strange feeling. Weirdly spooky. I know I must have had a truly fantastic time, because now the end is here, I don’t want to face it.

Prep for the Hep: Getting Ready to Travel

I have sixteen days until I leave for Thailand so I’m doing all the last minute jobs I need to do. The prep. I’ve consulted the “what to pack” websites. I’ve bought DEET. I’m thoroughly aware that I own only one bikini, which I don’t fit in, and that my sole alternative is a fairly ratty Speedo costume I used to swim lengths in last summer. I’m thoroughly dependant on getting fairly severe intestinal problems to squeeze into half the shorts I’ve bought. Shit is starting to get really real. Despite this need to shed about three-quarters of my body weight, I’m going to have to be very careful not to become terribly ill while I’m abroad, just a little ill, because it turns out jabs are really, really expensive. I went to the nurse the other day to get all the free travel injections I could get my hands on. I was practically running through their supplies, arms flailing, letting needles prick me from all angles.

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I’m Going to Thailand

downloadI’m going to Thailand.

I know it’s not the most original plan. It’s probably on the top ten millennial to-do tick list, but I’m thinking maybe that’s because it’s a good plan, and if I were the originator of such a good plan, I’d be a much more clever and original person than I actually am. Make sense?

In May of 2015, my ex and I decided to part ways. I left the house we had been renting together. I had to leave my [almost brand new] refrigerator, washing machine, and various other pieces of furniture as part of my exodus. I might never get over losing them.

Continue reading “I’m Going to Thailand”