Angels of Mercy (1) Panic in Bangkok
The room at the Sawasdee House was no bigger than a cell. Correction: it was no bigger than a double bed. On several occasions, while rumaging around in it, I had left my bag outside because it barely fitted with me in the room. I even forgot it outside while I went for a shower: it was still there when I came back. But today—to my considerable annoyance—I found that I had left it out overnight and it was gone.
I wasn’t worried: I carry my passport, ticket and most of my cash in a moneybelt on my body and most of my journal had been photocopied, but it was annoying because I had put 1000 Baht in my wallet to pay for a trip to Kanchanaburi to visit the tiger temple. The trip would have to be cancelled, because my ticket was also in the wallet. I figured I’d better tell the lady at the agency that I would not be requiring my seat on the minibus. But first of all I checked out of Sawasdee House. It was still early, but not so early that people had not yet begun to check out, as had been the case when I arrived the day before at 6:30 in the morning on the night bus from Hat Yai. I found a room without difficulty in a guesthouse hidden in a little alleyway lined with stalls, which nearly obscured the view to the entrance. Then I went to find the lady at the ticket agency.
“Oh, I remember you. You can still go! Bus not here yet.”
The bus was late, but I would have to change my last dollars to pay for the entrance fee and expenses. Still—this was my last chance to get to Kanchanaburi. The lady personally walked down the road with me to find a money changer, then pointed out the bus when it arrived. Alas, the driver did not accept my explanation for the lacking ticket and when I looked back at the shop, the counter was deserted. The other tourists were getting twitchy, we were already late, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure about this: “Oh, sod it. I better stay. Have a nice trip!” A wave, a smile, and I was back on the street
Something was nagging at the back of my head. I could not quite put a name to it. I went for breakfast, mulling this over.
Sure, the loss of the daypack bothered me: my little Sarawak keyring, my diary, the parts of my journal which I had not photocopied, including all entries from Rinca Island to Bali. But it was my own stupidity that it was lost and I did not feel victimised as I had when my backpack was stolen in Makassar. However, there was something else missing.
My Xanax!
The Xanax had been prescribed when I ended up in the Bali International Medical Centre emergency room with acute panic on my second day in Kuta (too much travel, too fast) and was discharged with a bill for over 11 million rupiah—more than 1000 US $. Once I was over that particular shock, I didn’t have much need for the pills, but I relied on them for the flight home—and that flight would leave tomorrow night. I needed to get hold of more Xanax or Valium. Naturally, it was a Sunday and most pharmacies were shut. And at the 24h Boots on Kao San Road I could guess what they said:
“We cannot dispense this without a prescription.”
“Where can I get a prescription from, today?”
The lady behind the counter wrote down an address in Thai on a slip of paper. “Hospital,” she said. What choice did I have? I handed the slip to a taxi driver and he drove me to a hospital. I started to shake as soon as I stepped into the foyer. Flashbacks, I presume.
Relax, you’re only here to ask for a prescription, I reasoned after I had shown my passport to the receptionist—but it was too late for my rational mind to intervene, because half-way to the chairs where I was supposed to wait, I suddenly found myself sprawled on the floor. The room span around even quicker than the speed with which I was put on a trolley and whisked to ER.
“I don’t have much money,” I protested.
“Don’t worry. Government hospital. Cheap.”
Not that it mattered anyway.
A few injections later, one of the doctors approached with a sheet of paper: “Give that to the receptionist and come back for your prescription.” Outside the swing doors I took a look at the bill. The numbers swam before my eyes. Surely, it could not be 27,000 Baht? But that was academic anyway, because I did not even have 2700 Baht. I staggered out of the main entrance and into another taxi. I broke out in a cold sweat when I remembered that the receptionist had given me back my passport, but she had kept my tourist card with all my details on it.
This is how the panicked mind works: Walking slowly back down Soi Rambuttri, I remembered that the 7/11 on the corner sold whisky and paracetamol. The solution to my problems suddenly seemed clear. Sure John would understand. No, he wouldn’t, but what other way was there? I stepped into the shop and cast around: “Paracetamol?”
“Behind the counter.”
Ah, so that was their game. Never mind, there were other shops along the road.
“Can I just have a small bottle of whisky, please?”
“Sure. —You want Paracetamol as well?”
Or was it their game?
“No thanks, I’m fine for now.”
[These guys are not supposed to sell liquor before 5pm either, unless there is a special dispensation on Sundays].
In the alley between the shop and Soi Rambuttri, I sat down on a wall and put my face in my hands.
“Are you alright?”
Two Spanish girls. I explained my situation and the older one nodded: “I have a similar condition. Wait five minutes and I get some of my pills.”
I wasn’t going anywhere and incredibly, she came back soon with two pills: a capsule—a tranquiliser which sounded vaguely familiar—and a tablet which might have been Valium.
“This,” she pointed at the capsule: “will help you sleep and this,” the tablet: “will calm you down.”
“Are you sure you can spare these?”
“Absolutely.”
I must have stared at her oddly. It was as if I had encountered an angel. This woman might have saved my life. And it meant that I could get on the plane home—if they let me out of the country.
That should have been that. But it wasn’t.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni