THAILAND 3: Out of Our Cage

“Caged birds accept each other, but flight is what they long for.” – Tennessee Williams

Not every day ends in tears.  Now that we’ve decided to take the plunge and make the final payment, we have no choice in the matter but to try and enjoy ourselves.  

I’m still recovering from the overload of MSG to my system, and the newly learned Thai phrase, ‘My sigh pung-chu rut’ (without MSG – spelled phonetically), now I now say at the end of every food order seems to be helping take the edge off. 

I’m really grateful that we discovered the reason behind my approaching insanity as early as we did, or I may have been on the next episode of Snapped.  But with this new found realization, also came delusional episodes of paranoia. 

I started to look at each dish with paranoid thoughts that it had been poisoned.  As though, I were the unworthy miscreant queen, who had unjustly occupied the thrown by killing off her noble but passive husband who ruled his lands fairly and was quite content with the realm he held.  I, on the other hand wanted more, neigh craved more power and so increased my desire to rule.  After months of scheming and getting the king’s manservant on my side (don’t ask me how), the plan was perfected, in place, and now. . . executed! ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we practice to deceive. . .’ (Cue evil laugh!) 

The downside of being a villainous character out of one of Shakespeare’s grand plays is that everyone is out to kill you!  Is it the waiter? The cook?  One of my classmates? Could it be Justin!?  Gasp!  The plot thickens, and I subconsciously raise a slender hand to my throat slowly twirling the stone hung delicately about my neck.  Is this my ‘tell’?  Are they onto my treachery and are plotting to kill me? 

I gaze through narrowed eyes, grown so by days of poison slowly dripping into my body, and glance about the restaurant at my peers.  I wonder who I can sacrifice for the job of poison tester . . . I like my classmates, and I’m not willing to sacrifice any for the job.  

Hmmm . . . perhaps Murf, the local beach dog.  No.  I like him too much as well, and the dogs on this island don’t seem too keen on Thai food. . .  (the musing continues. . .)  At this moment I am reminded of a poem by Shel Silverstein, ‘Poison-Tester’:

Poison-Tester

I'm poison-tester Tru.

I'm here to taste your food for you.

'Cause you could die in half a minute

If there's one drop of poison in it.

That lemonade to quench your thirst?

You'd better let me taste it first.

Mmmm--it's OK, but these boysenberries

I'll make sure they're safe, but that burger might

Be deadly--mmm--no, it's all right.

And now I'll test your hot fudge sundae;

Let's hope I'm not dead by Monday.

Mmm--it seems OK, but the poison could be

In the very late bite, so leave it for me.

Mmmm--well, it's all safe and my job is through.

See how I risked my life for you?

Seeing as though my moment of embraced insanity is slipping from me, and as I am no longer willing to off any of my classmates for the sake of my own neck - I begrudgingly eat my own food with trepidation and quiet misgivings.

It was finally the weekend, and time to burn off some steam.  Mr. E (names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved), one of our classmates and a charismatic fellow with a great smile, had also bravely rented a scooter for the weekend and was ready to roam with his new found freedom across the island. 

Wallets – check.  Helmets – check.  Beers – check.  We quickly realized that our scooters had cup holders the perfect size for our deucers, and being the frugal students that we are we decided to pre-funk on the way to dinner.  Dangerous, of course.  Stupid, no doubt.  But affordable, this is where I hold up my rocker-fists and scream, ‘Hell yeah!’ 

The roads were deserted, and the traffic lights only the ‘Start’.  As I counted down with the traffic counter, yes, they actually have clocks that count down – the old school racing video games of my not so distant childhood burst forth from my lips, ‘Beep. Beep. Beep. BOOOOOOP!!!’  And we’re off! 

Flying up and over the hills the stress, anticipation, and expectations of the past few weeks gripped on behind us as though dark capes tied around our necks, only to fly off moments later to be lost amongst the foliage.   

We decided to stop and eat at a restaurant recommended to us by Mr. E’s Lonely Planet Guide.  The sunset view was only perfected by the delicious food, and the company.  As the sun began to set, the lights from the fishermen’s boats began to alight being mimicked by the twinkling of an occasional star.  The large burning orb sank unhurried into the ocean, only to be completely swallowed up moments later leaving behind shadowed remnants of golden hues caressed with wisps of pink.

The night was still young, and for the moment so are we.  Darkness places a magical curtain around you, as though an invisibility cloak, it gives you the courage to do during the evening what would be unspeakable during the day.   Well, that and a couple more deucers of liquid courage, and you got yourself an evening to remember. . . or forget.

We knew the rest of our classmates were out having a good time as well so we circled the usual spots looking for them, but instead Patang found us.  The flashing lights, the ‘drunk-crossing’ sign, and the hordes of farangs (foreigners) was an instant warning flag that we walked straight past as we were drawn by the beautiful sounds of karaoke renditions of our favorite American songs. 

Upon discovery we found that it wasn’t karaoke at all, but a group of Thai singers who were well-practiced (remove ‘well’ here) at singing the farangs’ favorites.  The outdoor stage was large, loud and tucked in between two popular and packed restaurants. 

I love to dance.  Now, to say that I CAN dance would be more than a stretch, it would be a straight up lie, because I dance somewhere between and even more awkward Napolean Dynamite and the guy Budweiser coined a song for Mr. Really, Really Bad Dancer Guy  . .  Needless to say, it isn’t pretty people.  

So, one day – out of complete desperation to save the evening – a friend and I developed a dance routine that gets us out on that floor livin’ it up, whether we have sucked down that liquid courage or not. . . We so creatively named this routine Copy Dancing! It sounded a lot more epic in my mind at the time, and I could explain it to you, but basically it says it all in the name.

What? I still need to explain it to you? Well, the basic concept is this: 1) Find the . . .ummm. . .  the most unabashed (insert worst here) dancer on the floor, for example Mr./Mrs. Really, Really Bad Dancer, and 2) Copy him/her.  Yes, it sounds a bit mean when put so simply, but when you’re that bad, honey, you don’t care if I be cop-ee-in’.  You just glad to know that you still got it! (insert head bobbin’, finger shakin’, sassy voice here)  In my defense ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’ – Charles Colton.

I don’t know what it is, but people love to be copied.  I find that a lot of flamboyant gay men wearing a mid-drift sparkly neon orange top and leggings, and who’s shattered dreams of being a dance choreographer come alive once again on the dance floor, love, love, love showing me that it’s ‘all in the shoulder, baby’!  And I love to show them that I am the best darn copy dancer out there! 

But why copy dance? Why not just learn how to dance? Believe me, I’ve tried to learn, and I’m about as awkward as Bambi on ice.  My legs go one way, my arms go another, and who is giving directions to my head and shoulders is beyond me. . . and what the heck do you do with your hands!?  The way I figured it is you can’t be the worst dancer out there, if your copying the worst . . . I mean most unabashed. . . dancer out there.   It doesn’t have to make sense people! It just has to get all you wall-flowers out there on the dance floor.  

The wonderful part is you don’t have to think about what to do, what moves are in, what your style is, or how cool you look.  You just see him (the chubby, wanna-be cowboy with the ungodly chest hair that is visible to all because his shirts completely unbuttoned), and you simply do the dance, the not so sexy cowboy dance.  Now, how far you copy is up to you (please keep your shirt buttoned at all times), but I promise you will have the time of your life, and you will do things that night that you will remember in the next morning, because your body will ache all over, because you have moved in ways you never dreamed you could. . . Thank you, group of guys playing air guitar on one leg while hopping across the dance floor! Yeah, you guys try doing that on 4” heels! Done, and done! One of my proudest moments!

That all explained . . . Back to our night, the draw of the heavily Asian-accented American covers, and the lure of the dance.  Mr. E, Justin and I danced.  We copied danced, we three-way danced , Justin began to dance like Jim Carey’s version of Ice, Ice Baby, and we pulled people up on to that dance floor like we were the greatest rock stars in the world. 

The music died down, and a voice rang out across the crowd, “This one’s for all the couples out there.” Apparently Justin and I were the only ones who weren’t single within a two mile radius, so as to not disappoint our fans we did what we do best. . . we danced (this is supposed to be an ironic statement).  I would love to say it looked something like this chemistry charged dance.  Well, perhaps it looked that awesome in my mind, but the epic slide on his knees combined with his hands demonstrating how his heart was bursting for me. . . pretty sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the joint.

After we danced ‘til we dropped, or rather Justin bust open his chin doing the worm on a cement dance floor - we decided it was time to walk-it off along the beach until the electric thrill of the evening had settled to a mere buzz, and well, to be honest we had sobered up enough to drive.

The night became one with the dark ocean, and the sand between our toes squished up as though soggy carpet.  The salty air, the starry night, three friends deep in philosophical discussions about life, love, and oh, full bladders! I chose to wade out into the warm ocean water, look up at the night sky, and let out a sigh of relief.  Alright, I confess! I peed in the ocean – so shoot me! Fine.  Fine.  Take me away in handcuffs, but in my defense I was just trying to make sure that I didn’t get stung by a jelly fish! Not one of my proudest moments.  Thank you Justin for pointing it out to the world! I thought I was in stealth mode.  I guess that is something, along with actual dancing, that I need to work on.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be allowed out of our cages.  They are probably still trying to clean the blood off the dance floor from Justin’s split chin, and now I could be accused of public indecency!

We stumbled over to our bikes, and decided to ride home.  Go ahead, judge us! As though none of you have ever driven home after having a drink or two.  Kids, I don’t condone it, nor am I proud of what we did that night.  Parents, I should have mentioned at the beginning just to skip this one . . . oops!

We drove home down abandoned roads with one too many in our systems, but we learned our lesson the next morning after seeing our not so perfect park jobs, walking around hunched over as though we had aged 50 years over night, and having the simple conversation, “We shouldn’t have driven last night.” As wisely observed by Mr. E.

“Nope.” Justin said shaking his head while cocking it to one side to mirror the same angle of his bike.

“Guess we won’t do that again.” I said hopefully.

“Nope.”  We all agreed in unison.

It had felt good to let off a little steam after the past few weeks that we’d had, but the next week, and our last of school proved to be even more anticlimactic.

Everyday news was pouring in from our classmates about where they were going to be placed, but Justin had yet to hear anything until one day . . . “I just found out that we’re probably going to get placed in Nonthaburi or Ayutthya.”

It was sweet of him to always use ‘we’ as though I was being placed too.  I felt cheated of my own feelings of anticipation waiting for my placement news.

“The only thing is . . . I’m up against Mr. E for the position.” Justin said shaking his head.

“Mr. E? You guys are competing for the same position? It’s too bad that there isn’t two spots and you guys could be placed in the same location.” It was a dream only, and of no help to the situation. The anticipation of our placement, as well as everyone else’s, had been mounting for weeks, and now finding out that Justin was competing with our closest comrade, Mr. E, for a position was bitter sweet. 

The school days past, and we taught a few ‘teacher practices’ at the local orphanages and juvenile facilities.  All too soon, we found out the good-not-so-good news.  Justin had gotten the job, and would be placed at a private school in Nonthaburi.  We, he, would start teaching November 1^st.  Mr. E would have to wait a little while longer to find out where he was getting placed, but don’t worry he'll be placed eventually.

Our three weeks of school were coming to a close, as news of the horrific flooding in Bangkok started to trickle in.  The papers were littered with news highlights containing, “The Worst Flood in Over 50 Years’, “Nonthaburi province - One of the Worst Hit Areas”, and “Crocodiles and Green Mambas on the Loose in Nonthaburi”.