It’s impossible to escape the fact that Bangkok is built on a jungle and that said jungle is trying to kill you. The temperature is in ‘the high 30s’ according to the locals and Matt’s American-educated mind runs through a quick conversion calculation. 35º Celsius would be 95º Fahrenheit, so today’s gonna be hot.
Matt takes another gulp from the water bottle he’s carrying.
It’s the last of his bottle, which means it’s time to find a 7-11 and get another one. That’s not hard to do, even down here in the Chinatown district, one’s never more than a block or two away.
The streets teem with gasoline-powered life and amid the cars, trucks, and motorbikes, a wandering pedestrian needs to take care. Channeling his inner Frogger, Matt hops lane by lane to the other side of the asphalt river and the air-conditioned 7-11.
He’s waiting in line to pay for his 1.5 liter bottle of ‘nam’ (Thai for water) when a Western couple comes in asking where this 7-11 is in the greater city of Bangkok.
Matt tries to be helpful. “You’re in Chinatown!”
The dark blonde, husky twenty-something man responds with, “I know that, but where?” His accent is some flavor of European.
“Sorry, can’t help you on that one.”
Brusk European turns away from Matt and huffily asks a local, pointing at his map. Meanwhile, his girlfriend is silently watching Matt leave the store.
The Matt’s face beads up with moisture in the Thai sun. He takes another gulp of chilly water. A body needs more than just water to survive, though. His eyes scan the area for some street vendors, far and away the cheapest food option. Spotting the telltale steam and metallic glint a short walk down into the heart of the city, he’s immediately off and stalking his prey.
Two sticks of ‘gai’ (chicken) later, and Matt’s almost done sating his more primal needs. He spots another food cart. He saunters over to the vendor lounging in the shade.
The thin and greasy man unfolds from his perch and seems bored when he explains his wares. “Pig stomach,” is the most the man will say about it.
Regardless, the American’s feeling adventurous and pays the man 10 baht for a plastic baggie full of grilled and diced pork intestines and that delicious chili-vinegar sauce that’s served along with most street meat.
He’s devouring it all with gusto. He slows down the shoveling of food only to chew another springy bite then stabs another piece with the wooden kebab. He eats with so much enthusiasm that he drips some of the scarlet vinegar onto his palm. In an instant, he’s licked the sauce up by reflex.
Matt’s eyes go wide and his mouth is still for the first time in minutes. “Oh fuck.” His stomach rumbles it’s agreement to the sentiment.
His hands have touched taxis, handrails, money, doors, other people’s hands, you name it and he’s touched it; his hands are filthy. He has maybe half an hour before shit hits the fan.
He turns into a ‘trok’ (back alleys off of the larger ‘soi’ side streets) of Chinatown to get a feel for the real-deal neighborhood before he has to book it back to his hotel and a real-deal bathroom. Though the narrow streets are darkened by shade, the smell of hot garbage is somehow stronger than before. Meat and seafood of all kinds hang on hooks and in hodge-podge stacks in dripping plastic bins. Flies swarm the small piles of refuse in the gutters and laborers eat quick lunches of whatever-the-hell-that-is on the benches nearby. Workmen, shopkeepers, and assorted locals stare at him as he trudges around them. Matt smiles and waves. No one waves back.
His stomach turns over ever-so-slightly and the interloper rushes back out to the main road to get some fresh air. He rushes around to find a tuktuk and instead happens upon a strange whisky-pig shrine on a fold-up table. There’s no time to study it, only to take a picture and rush on.
The first tuktuk won’t bargain under 150 baht, a blatant rip-off, and the second won’t budge below 100. Time is of the essence so Matt agrees to the almost-reasonable fare. As the mini-taxi rumbles along, the traveler’s intestines rumble along in time. The ride is punctuated by the increasingly shorter periods of ease until Matt is dropped off three blocks from his hotel in agony.
He’s speed-walking now, since the long strides of a run may not be wholly trustworthy. He’s sweating profusely though he’s cooled down considerably in the breeze-filled tuktuk. One block away, suddenly Matt feels absolutely fine.
Seconds later, it’s DEFCON 1 again. The pressure threatens to bore a new escape route out of his body.
“This won’t be my shit-my-pants story!” Matt swears, recalling his friend Mike’s words of caution from a visit in China four years ago.
‘Everybody has a ‘shit-my-pants’ story in China.’ Mike had said. ‘It’s not a matter of if, but when. Maybe it’s in your first week, maybe it’s not until almost a year in, maybe it’s on your plane ride home, but it’ll happen.’ Mike and his friends had all nodded solemnly.
He takes off into a sprint, stride length be damned.
He bursts into the lobby, scrambles up the three flights of stairs, rips off the bag of water bottles the housekeepers have been so kind to hang there every day, and paws the doorknob with slippery hands. The lock clicks and he’s through, exploding into the bathroom just in the nick of time.
“Oh my god… oh my god… oh my god… oh my god…” Matt realizes he’s been gasping for a minute or two in the aftermath of release, sitting on his porcelain throne. “Oh my god… oh my god… oh my god…” he continues, rocking gently back and forth in the sudden peace.
It’s hours later and night has fallen on the sprawling metropolis. Matt has spent the afternoon lounging in his climate controlled sanctuary and finally feels ready to explore the Khao San Road area one more time before heading to Chiang Mai in the north tomorrow. He’s objectiveless now that his Swedish and Belgian friends have already left Bangkok for home or other locales. Besides, chugging beers doesn’t suit his just-recovered, gastronomically-fragile state.
He’s discovering that there’s not much to do out here near Khao San unless you actually want to get ripped or ripped off. He’s turning to walk home when he recognizes a pair of faces attached to the bodies he’s just passed in the narrow market.
“Hey! You two!” Matt stops and calls out. “You were in Chinatown today, yeah?”
The pair looks back over their shoulders. They frown, then smile. They are the two people asking for directions in the 7-11 today! They’re chuckling and flabbergasted that Matt recognized them after such a brief interaction. In their German accents, the pair, Benjamin and Ellie, press Matt to have at least one drink with them on their last night in the city. Matt tries to wave the offer off, but they won’t take no for an answer, so he finds himself sitting in a quiet patio bar. He’s probably recovered enough for at least one drink.
The three are the only patrons in the island bungalow-themed location. Under the faux candle-light, the couple explains how they’re still finishing school in southern Germany and have been traveling Thailand for a month already. They’ve been to the northern province of Chiang Mai and can’t get their words of praise out fast enough.
“Oh you’re going to have so much fun in Chiang Mai!” Ellie is telling him. “It’s more quiet and more clean than Bangkok and more fun! We did a trek tour which was great and a massage,” Ellie looks to Benjamin who is nodding, “and it was all so good! I wish we could spend all of our vacation there!”
As she’s going on, Matt smiles and listens while pulling out a US dollar bill from his pocket. He begins to fold his calling card. Though they had been flustered and gruff at their first meeting, this friendlier side of them was significantly more worthy of a parting gift.
Ellie’s German accent and broad smile continues on and hooks a passing pedestrian. The pedestrian, a lanky young man, politely interrupts and asks if he can join them for adrink and he is quickly welcomed by the group.
The new arrival is Leon and he’s grinning not just at having found company to share a drink on this cooler evening, but at finding fellow Germans. Nineteen-year-old Leon hails from northern Bavaria, and is traveling after quitting his job at Burger King, unsure where to take his life next. Though if all else fails, he has free food at the burger joint for life after building strong friendships with his colleagues and it’s not very hard to see why. He flips his brown long-on-the-top-short-on-the-sides hair and drinks with the ease of most Germans his age, having legally started years before his American counterparts. His smile is easy and genuine, he’s open and inviting conversation, and he speaks with purpose that’s not entirely due to his uncertainty in the English language.
Matt settles in, surrounded by the rolling ‘r’s and deeper vowels of the fatherland. Ellie bounces in her seat as she continues to praise northern Thailand and Leon’s smile goes wide in awe as he details the wonders in the south.
“The most beautiful diving! There were fish you wouldn’t believe! I saw eels,” Leon wriggles a bit, gesturing and pantomiming each animal he describes, “a nemo fish, and a…” Leon’s English falters at the exotic animals and he turns to his compatriots for aid, “Stachelrochen?”
Benjamin is also a bit at a loss, scissoring his hands in embarrassment. “The ah, fish with Steve Irwin?”
“Oh, stingray,” Matt understands.
“Yes!” Leon beams. “The fish were so many, it was incredible! The water is so clear!”
Matt agrees to check out the beaches of the south before he leaves for home again, though perhaps not for the diving. He tends to sink like a rock.
He gives Ellie the finished paper terrier and she’s quickly showing it off to Benjamin. They ask him a bit about his origami (a conversation Matt is well-experienced in) and his stay in Bangkok thus far.
“Well, I went to the mall yesterday,” Matt starts off, “which was huge and air-conditioned and pretty unbelievable. Like, I couldn’t find a single angle to take a picture where I could get all of the floors in one shot! And there was this sushi restaurant there? It had the most amazing fish I’ve ever had, and real wasabi! I swear it was unlike anything I’d ever had in the States. And they gave me a straw with the bottle of water at this kind of fancy place–” he stops himself. “Have you noticed how in love with straws people are here?!”
Matt’s hands are spread out imploringly and the group is laughing because they agree that they’re handed straws with almost every beverage. “It’s everywhere! Restaurants, hotels, 7-11s! You’ll get a big bottle of water, even one of those a liter and a half ones, and they slip you a straw as you’re leaving. Nevermind that the thing is too short to even work properly and not just fall right in! And I saw Lucy, that shitty movie,” he began, fully intending to go into his true feelings on that train-wreck of a film.
It is at this moment that his stomach checks in and lets him know that the beer he’s just finished isn’t exactly agreeing with him. As though on some twisted game show, he now has a set number of minutes on the metaphorical clock before he needs to be home again. So instead of going on, he transitions the group out of the bar which has filled up around their animated conversation.
They’re walking around the market, refusing offers for suits and tuktuks, which prompts Leon to launch into a tirade of his own. On his first day in the city he rode one of the much-touted tuktuks, excited to try the novelty. Instead of taking him to Khao San Road for the agreed-upon 150 baht though, the driver took the young backpacker to some way-back alley Chinatown street in the middle of nowhere. Deep, shank-you-very-much Chinatown. He then refused to take Leon any further unless he paid him 400 baht, an outrageous sum for a tuktuk to anywhere in the city, let alone as ransom to be brought home. Leon shakes his head, cursing and vowing to never ride another one of the damned things in his life.
Ellie commiserates on Leon’s ordeal though Matt counters with his own experience of bribing a tuktuk driver. He had found out that the drivers get fuel coupons worth just as much as a trip for bringing unsuspecting travelers to stores to be scammed and so yesterday had agreed to be taken to three scammy suit stores in exchange for a free ride downtown to the Vietnamese embassy. The driver was happy, Matt was happy, and he had wasted several corrupt salesmen’s time. Win-win-win.
Despite all this, Leon refuses to change his opinion on the three-wheeled vehicles, and the pulsed aching in Matt’s abdomen cuts off any further argument he might have offered. Luckily, Benjamin and Ellie retire for the night.
Hugs are given all around and the couple is out of the picture, though Leon is too friendly by half.
“It’s still early, you know. If you want we can drink some more beers at my hotel bar?” he offers.
Matt grimaces, as much from his anticipated social awkwardness as the groaning in his gut. “Uhhhh, how about we hang out tomorrow?” He can’t explain the true nature of the situation to his newfound friend, “I’m pretty tired right now…”
“Sure. Find me on Facebook?” Leon writes his name in Matt’s phone.
Matt’s leaning on one foot, then the other, yessing the young German.
“My picture is me with a beer and the hat…” Leon struggles with his vocabulary, “the square hat… you get when you graduate school, yes?”
“Yea, graduation cap. Beer and graduation cap, got it. I’ll see you tomorrow!” Matt pockets his phone and starts walking away.
He leaves Leon shrugging and makes his mad dash home. He picks up speed, following signs through unfamiliar and winding streets back to Khao San Road, his central landmark. Other backpackers are khaki and tan blurs and the various shops whiz past his peripheral vision.
Once out onto a darker street some Thai men bid him stop, jumping and waving and calling out to him.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Tuktuk? You want tuktuk?” They grin.
“Ah fuck off, I don’t want a tuktuk!” Matt huffs and rolls his eyes. He might have to reconsider Leon’s position.
He gets his bearings and realizes he’s already run a minute or two in the wrong direction. He corrects his course through the concrete wilderness. The ornate Thai sidewalks splash beneath his feet. He stares straight ahead, emptying his mind until the building pressure inside his body erupts into his consciousness like a wrecking ball. Tuktuk drivers prowl the streets for fares, making fun of his frenzied sprint. Other pedestrians look askance at the frantic American as he weaves around them. The sweat runs down his face and drips into the many puddles. His prey is so close he can taste it! Matt’s insides growl in protest. Well, maybe not taste it.
“This won’t be my shit-my-pants story!” he reaffirms and rounds the corner to his hotel.
* * *
Mike’s friends all nod solemnly around the dinner table. It could happen to anybody.
One of the bunch, Skippy, takes the reigns of the narrative. Skippy is teaching English out in China while he practices his drinking. “One time, aboot a year ago,” he starts in his thick-as-cheddar-cheese Minnesotan accent, “I thought I was having my own shit my pants story.”
~ o o o ~
(double-flashback time!)
Skippy paces the room. He’s looking up at the ceiling, but he only sees flashes of memories from the night before.
He’d been drunk, certainly, but this drunk? Drunk enough to shit his pants? Drunk enough to crawl out of bed, down the hallway, and into the communal bathroom? While smearing shit everywhere? Surely not that drunk…
Skippy shakes his head. The administration for the Beijing grad school he studies at isn’t so doubtful. This is merely the crown jewel in an otherwise ‘pristine’ record. He had to find a way to explain the situation.
With a t-shirt still covering his mouth he leaves his room and follows the trail down the hallway. There smears on the walls aren’t very coherent, though it’s obvious they’re done with the left hand. Skippy is a lefty. He continues past these arcs of madness painted on the walls.
At the end of the hallway is the bathroom. The inner sanctum. Skippy pushes open the door and is pushed back in turn by the stench. The janitor isn’t scheduled to be down for another twenty minutes. Skippy does not envy the man.
Clues, he needs clues! He searches the white tiled room. Smears of incompetent incontinence flutter around the walls for a bit, as though the perpetrator had been a giant moth, blinded by the bathroom’s harsh halogen lights. They culminate in one of the stalls.
A flash in the mirror catches his attention. He turns and looks himself in the eye. Are these the eyes of a vagrant? He inches closer to his reflection.
Then reels back for a second. Right in the middle of the mirror is a single handprint. Skippy leans back in. This is the cleanest clue he’s seen yet. He looks away. ‘Cleanest’ for a given definition of clean…
Back to the clue. He brings his own hand up to the mirror as well. Skippy’s hand completely overshadows the handprint. It’s too small. It couldn’t have possibly been him!
~ o o o ~
Skippy rocks back in his seat, hissing the soft sigh of someone who has just thrown back a shot of something strong. The small bottle of baijiu in front of him is empty, as is the dripping shot glass. When had he finished it all?
“So who’s handprint was it?!”
“Oh,” Skippy focuses on Matt again. “It was the girl I had over the night before, eh?” He said it so matter-of-factly.
“Oh.” Matt accepts this explanation. He’s drinking with friends at a dodgy Chinese bar and doesn’t want to add images of Skippy’s love life into the mix.
Images like that could turn your stomach in knots.
* * *
His stomach is twisting and fighting to get free, but Matt doesn’t feel it.
He’s a juggernaut. He doesn’t stop until the stairwell envelops and releases him. He’s up on his floor, panting and dripping in the hallway. His hands slip on the aluminum knob at first, eventually managing to get the door open. He bursts into the chilly air of his room for the second time today, a two-time victor in the race against time.
Once again, Matt is victorious over the bloodthirsty urban jungle.
All glory to the Pig Face Shrine